


Closer

by ktula



Series: Somewhere in Canada... (the Terror kink AU) [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Convention, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bootblacking, Collars, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Little, M/M, Power Exchange, Rough Body Play, Scent Kink, Tozer/Irving if you squint, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Thomas Jopson, a smol dash of platonic kink and a liberal serving of sexual kink, consent negotiations, hard kink written softly, just kidding sap gloves are illegal in canada, no lead exposure at all for anyone, only the safest of lead exposure, relationship ended with serious tags now shitposting is my only friend, upper class man lower class mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 60,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23457298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: Edward Little has been to kink conventions before. Canada is new, though. So is the devastatingly handsome guy working the booth across the hall.The feeling Edward’s somehow gonna fuck the whole weekend up?That, unfortunately, is terribly familiar.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little & Sgt Solomon Tozer, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: Somewhere in Canada... (the Terror kink AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687498
Comments: 142
Kudos: 119





	1. Risk

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are! The first installment in the Terror kink AU that I've been vague-tweeting about since December.
> 
> As a note - the tags on the fic itself are general tags applicable to the whole story. Each chapter will have detailed content notes containing info specific to that chapter. If you have any questions about anything, please feel free to dump an ask into my [Tumblr](http://heyktula.tumblr.com) or my [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/heyktula)!
> 
> EDIT (April 24th): Hi, just wanted to note that I've updated the tags! Also, there's no transphobia here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “With all due respect, Francis, Blanky doesn’t know your work like I do. It’s no hardship for me to sell your books or run your booth. It’s work I do anyway, and it’s work I quite enjoy doing, and I would vastly prefer if you just _let me do it_.”
> 
> Or, the one where (almost) everyone goes to Canada to participate in a kink convention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter are at the end.

It's the profanity that gets Thomas' attention initially. He’s crouched in the back of the van attempting to extract the last crate of books without toppling over the shelving Blanky had rigged up. It's the middle of a bright August day, and there's endless prairie sky above them, even in the middle of the city. The van is basically a greenhouse at this point, and there’s sweat on the back of Thomas’ neck. He reaches under his shirt, scratches habitually at the place where the edge of his binder used to be—touches bare skin instead, sweat-sticky. He’ll need to switch shirts the moment he’s hauled everything into merch anyway, doesn’t particularly want to be seen wearing this one when there’s visible sweat on it. Not the kind of look he wants anybody to see. Not this weekend.

(The next person that tells him _it’s a dry heat_ is going to get a very polite stare.)

The bark of profanity from across the parking lot— _fuck!_ —is sharp and violent, and it sets the hair up on the back of Thomas' neck. It’s a familiar accent, not Canadian at all. Thomas cocks his head, listening. Reaches back under the shelving to press the flap of the box down so he can ease it out. The back of the vehicle smells like leather, especially in the heat, and it's going to Thomas' head, making everything just a bit spinny. There’s a box of wooden paddles in here as well—Blanky’s, and they’ll have to be hauled inside too. If there isn’t space for them to be put out now, they can be stored under the table until there is. It’ll probably be faster to make two trips than to try to yank a luggage cart across the gravel.

(Thomas wonders if the guy with the sharp voice is as big and gruff as his voice makes him sound. Hopes for somebody broader than he is, nice wide shoulders, big hands.)

He slips his hand into the handle of the last box of books, grabs the lip of the wooden box full of paddles, and drags them both to the back of the van. Carefully steps out onto the gravel, squints in the sunlight, eyes automatically scanning the car park for—ah, there he is. The fellow Englishman, with the foul mouth. He’s got his back to Thomas, a mere three vehicles away. He’s not wearing a hat, and his chestnut brown hair is neatly parted and combed. His white sleeveless shirt leaves his arms bare in the heat. Well, his left arm is bare. His right is swathed in ink, curling from his shoulder all the way to his wrist. Thomas swallows. The stranger is wearing expensive jeans and military boots with gravel dust on them that Thomas is absolutely itching to polish. Exquisite posture he’s deliberately using to intimidate the short narrow-faced man he’s speaking to—wide stance, weight on his toes, shoulders rolled forward, arms just a bit wider than what they need to be.

No, not speaking. He's giving an _order_. His voice is low, the words indistinguishable, but the meaning is clear, punctuated by a sharp hand gesture back to the truck they’re standing beside. There are a series of irregular shadows on the man's knuckles—either bruises or tattoos, Thomas can't tell which. The shorter man is smirking in response, holding his hands out in front of him, palms up. The Englishman snaps something at him. The other man says something languid in response, and bends to pick up the box at his feet, the movement deliberately provocative.

“Fuck out of here, and leave the box,” the Englishman growls. He watches the shorter man go. Runs his hand back through his hair.

It was the profanity that got Thomas’ attention, but it’s the gruff orders that are setting his skin in goosebumps, making him shudder. Thomas allows himself to revel in the feeling for mere seconds—the infinite stretch of possibilities, rough hands gripping at his hip and the back of his neck and his wrist—and then shrugs it off. Picks up the box of handcrafted paddles, shuts the van doors. It's inefficient to veer in their direction as Thomas carries the box into the venue, so he doesn't, but he makes full use of his peripheral vision as he walks by. The guy is turning just as Thomas passes, so he doesn't have the opportunity for eye contact, but does get the surprise of a full set of muttonchops, sunlight glinting off the gold piercings in the man's face and the very expensive watch on his left hand. The tattoo on his right arm is a vintage-style kraken, winding around his bicep and down his arm.

Thomas takes a deep breath. It's Friday. Merch setup this afternoon, social tonight, and the convention proper starting tomorrow morning. He doesn’t fly back to London until Monday. There’s plenty of time.

Anything can happen.

* * *

“Who’s the cutie lurking around that merch table?”

Tozer glances across the hall, snorts, and then goes back to rummaging underneath the table. “You into blondes now?”

Edward looks across the hall again, cringes. “No, fuck, that’s—no, I think that’s Sophia Cracroft, Sol, I’m not—Christ. Sophia Cracroft, Jesus.” He picks up the first thing that comes to hand, which happens to be a police baton. He’s still feeling amped up from the confrontation with Hickey earlier, kind of wants to hit something, or get hit. He had to leave his sap gloves at home, and he feels off-balance without them, like he’s left the house without his belt and is two seconds away from his pants falling down.

The baton is nice, as far as equipment goes. Heavy. Sits in his palm like a weight. _Fuck_ , he should have just finished the argument with Hickey in the car park. He knows there’s more bullshit coming. He fucking _knows_ it, and he should have gotten ahead of it all the way, instead of just cursing him out, making sure the butterfly knives went back in the fucking truck. This isn’t the first issue, and it won’t be the last.

(There’s still two more days of this).

Tozer tugs a plastic crate out from underneath the table, and then looks over his shoulder. “ _That_ guy? With the hair and the puppy-dog eyes?”

“Yeah,” Edward says softly, his eyes wandering across the hall again. He spins the baton idly in his hand, watches. The guy is absolutely gorgeous, standing there in chinos and a linen button-down with the sleeves meticulously rolled back. He’s lanky and slender, with bright eyes, and hair that’s carefully styled, brushed back from his forehead, the kind of hair that Edward would dearly love to sink his fingers into. It looks soft, probably smells like expensive conditioner. He would probably moan prettily if Edward tugged on it, too.

Tozer chuckles, stands up. Adjusts the leather harness he’s wearing over his black tshirt, scans the room and winks at someone standing at the other end of the hall. “Please. You’d chew a guy like that up and spit him out, and there’s no fucking way he’d call you back.”

Edward scowls. “Come on.”

“Look at him,” Tozer says. “He’s holding a conversation with Sophia fucking Cracroft, and she’s actually listening to him. I can count the number of men she’ll actually listen to for longer than five minutes on one hand, and they’ve been chatting for at least ten now. You’re gonna, what—offer up your opinion on _rope_?”

Edward shrugs, self-consciously scrubs at his cheek with the back of his hand. Sets the baton back down on the table. “I have opinions on rope.”

Tozer snorts. “I don’t think either Sophia Cracroft or your pretty boy over there are going to give a shit about them.” He hefts the crate up, thunks it down on top of the table. Pulls out a set of lead-weighted gloves very similar to the ones that Edward left, reluctantly, back in his flat in London.

“Whoa,” Edward says, moving in close to Tozer, and glancing back over his shoulder. “Put that shit away.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Edward glances in the crate. It’s chock full of gloves, and his hands twitch from how badly he just wants to _touch,_ pick a set up and hook them onto the empty carabiner he still has on his own belt, dangling there doing absolutely jackshit. “I’m absolutely not kidding,” he says in an undertone. “Give me the damn crate, I’ll put it back in the truck along with Hickey’s fucking butterfly knives. You can't have them out. They’re prohibited weapons here.”

“Shit,” Tozer says, “I was wondering where the fuck those knives went. I’m selling those this weekend too.”

“Absolutely not,” Edward snaps. “We’re in fucking Canada, how did you even get them into the country?”

Tozer leans back against the table, grins. “That was all Hickey—”

“Fuck,” Edward curses. He bumps Tozer with his shoulder, reaches under his arm and wrestles the crate off the table. “I like it here. I would like to come back. This shit is not going to fly. It's illegal. I’m taking this out to the truck, and it’s staying there.”

“You’re fucking my profits,” Tozer warns. Steps closer to Edward so he can loom more effectively. “I need to make—”

“These items aren’t legal in Canada,” Edward repeats tightly. “I won’t let you sell them, and I have no qualms about reporting you and Hickey both.”

Tozer hesitates, relaxes. Leans back against the table again, feigning nonchalance. “Border guards won’t do shit.”

“Silna might,” Edward counters. He jams the lid on the top of the crate, secures it, and stalks out to the car park again so he can get it stowed away before anybody realizes it’s here.

⛓️

(He’s halfway to the truck before he realizes he’s referred to Lady Silence by her first name, like he knows her, and it’s so inappropriate that he actually stops walking for a second, rests his forehead on the box of illegal gear. Takes a second to breathe. Fuck. It’s too early for him to be fucking things up like this. The event hasn’t even started yet. He’s not this person. He knows his shit. He’s just going to—going to keep Tozer and Hickey in line for the weekend, teach his classes, and keep his head down otherwise. Maybe make a pass at the cutie tonight at the social. Or tomorrow.)

(Maybe tomorrow would be better.)

⛓️

There’s a coffeeshop across the street from the hotel. Everything is red and brown and maple leaves, and nothing makes sense. Edward has been standing inside for nearly five minutes, and still cannot figure out how the fuck to order a coffee. People keep ordering long johns. Until five minutes ago, Edward would have sworn on his life that long johns were definitely not a food, and instead were the kind of thing that Hickey would get somebody to order just to make an arse out of them.

He really just wanted a coffee.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe he’ll just go back to the hotel. There’s probably instant coffee in the hotel room, if Tozer hasn’t drank it all already. He can just go back and—

“Edward Little,” someone says warmly. “This is a pleasant surprise!”

Edward opens his eyes. “Mr. Goodsir!”

They clasp arms.

“Harry, please,” Goodsir says. He looks as he always does—eyes bright, hair curling about his ears. He’s in a plaid button-up shirt, but hasn’t bothered rolling up the sleeves, like the August heat isn’t bothering him at all. “I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.”

“Flew out with Tozer,” Edward says. “He needed a hand with booth setup.”

“Of course,” Goodsir says. “The…military fetishist, right?”

“Yes,” Edward says, instantly regretting not being more vague about it. “I mean, I’m not official—I’m not helping officially, I’m just—”

“I’m sure it’s much appreciated,” Goodsir says with his regular optimism. “Are you heading back to the hotel right away?”

“Just, uh.” Edward gestures vaguely. “Coffee.”

“Oh, let me,” Goodsir says. “Two cream, two sugar, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Edward nods, and then reaches for his wallet. “I can definitely, though—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Goodsir says. “I’ve got it.” He steps up to the counter, starts chatting with the cashier, gesturing at the baked goods display.

Edward looks down into his wallet, and sighs. The bank notes are all the same size, and the colours are wrong. Closes his wallet, puts it back into his pocket, and looks up just in time to take the coffee from Goodsir.

“Extra-large double double,” Goodsir says. “For next time.”

“Right.”

“I’m delighted I ran into you,” Goodsir says as they leave the coffeeshop to walk back to the hotel. “I was hoping you could give me a hand with something, actually?”

“Sure,” Edward says, squinting against the sunlight. Sunglasses. Next time, he’s definitely going to bring sunglasses.

“We had a munch last week, and someone was asking about the history of leather culture—not really my area of expertise, but I knew I’d run into you this weekend, and I was wondering if you could send me some resources.”

“Yeah, I can, actually.” Edward thinks for a minute. “I’ll email you a link to my blog, I have a post from August that goes over it briefly—but honestly, what you’re going to want is a couple of the Crozier books. There’s one he put out in the eighties that’s exclusively leather history, but there’s also some good information in, uh, the protocol book that was published in two thousand two, the BDSM dictionary in the nineties—sorry, not giving this to you in chronological order—everything’s cited properly in the blog post, that’ll be better organized than my rambling. Oh, there’s also some stuff in one of the rope books, can’t remember which. Honestly, you really can’t go wrong with one of the Croziers, he’s a personal hero of mine, basically _the_ name in kink publications, at least for hardcopy. I’m guessing somebody at the conference will be selling his books—the older guy who runs the queer bookstore, Bridgens? His blog post made it sound like he’d have most of them available, so that’s probably their best option. Crozier’s stuff is always meticulous, plus he has the advantage of actually having been there, all I’m doing is just writing about stuff that happened, uh, before I was legal, so.” Edward stops talking abruptly, suddenly aware that he’s talked way more than what he actually needs to, when all Goodsir really needed was a name, probably didn’t even need a link to Edward’s blog. Edward could have just directed him to Crozier’s books immediately instead of sticking a plug for his own work in there, considering that it’s never going to measure up to anything Crozier’s written over the years. Should have just—

“Perfect,” Goodsir says, delighted. “That’s exactly what I was looking for, I knew you’d know the answer—you have my cell, right? Just go ahead and text me the link to your blog, I’ll pass the information along. And we’ll have to keep in touch this weekend. That offer you made over email—I’d like to tap into your expertise for organizing the winter conference—you’ll be braving us in six months, right?”

Edward blinks. “Uh, yes, definitely—I mean, how cold could it be, you know?”

“Cold,” Goodsir says, smiling brightly. “Do you want a Timbit?”

Edward looks over.

The box Goodsir is holding out is full of doughnut holes.

⛓️

“You should consider branching out,” Hickey says.

Edward adjusts the lamp that’s shining down on Tozer’s dogtag display, leans back, and then frowns and adjusts the light again, trying to find an arrangement that illuminates the booth without reflecting a glare off all the metal.

“Little.”

Edward frowns at the display, doesn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

“Branching out,” Hickey repeats. “Can’t make money off your knuckles.”

“Mmm,” Edward says. He glances back at Hickey’s feet by reflex, making sure that he’s not trying to get illegal gear back into the booth again. Hickey’s boots are dirty, and so are the hems of his jeans, but he’s not trying to shove anything under the table so it’s probably fine.

“Though,” Hickey continues. “Suppose you don’t need to make money, do you.”

(He’ll check under the table once Hickey has wandered off, just in case. The keys to the locked truck are clipped to his carabiner, but if anybody he knows can pick a lock, it’ll probably be Hickey.)

“How’s the light look from where you’re standing?” Edward asks.

“Dunno.” Hickey grins, lopsided. “Distracted by the glare off your watch.”

Edward turns his head, rolls his eyes. Makes another adjustment to the light, and then flicks it off. It’s about as good as he can get it, and Tozer can look after the rest of the finicky stuff himself, if he’s so inclined. The booth looks good—everything’s arranged nicely, harnesses and the bigger items hanging on the end, leading through to the police batons, the collars, the military hats and the dogtags. Edward exhales, swings his arms behind his back and stretches aggressively. Fuck, his shoulders are sore—between the five-hour drive from Hickey’s, and the hellishly long flight to get there in the first place, he is very aware that he’s not in his twenties anymore.

There’s a hearty laugh from across the hall. Edward turns. It’s the older guy with the long hair across the hall that’s laughing his ass off, but the cutie is standing right next to him, looking down at his phone, his ears charmingly pink. Edward only looks for a moment before he remembers whose company he’s in, switches his gaze casually to Hickey once he realizes what he’s done.

Hickey is glancing at his nails, and Edward thinks he’s maybe been subtle about it—but then Hickey glances up, smirking, and Edward knows he’s been caught.

“Tozer did say you were gonna make an ass of yourself this weekend,” Hickey says casually. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, though. Pretty boy like that, I’m sure he’s into swole boys like you.”

Edward shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets.

Hickey reaches out, pats Edward on the cheek. “Best keep your mouth shut about those fetishes, though.”

Edward bites back his retort, catches it on his teeth before it leaves his mouth. Smiles politely.

Hickey digs a pack of smokes out of his back pocket, puts one between his lips. “Don’t worry, though—there’s always space for you here, Ed.”

Edward just keeps smiling, shakes his head when Hickey offers him a cigarette. “I quit,” he says, like his vape isn’t tucked into his bag, rolled up in a set of socks.

Fucking Hickey.

 _We really gotta stop going places with this guy,_ Edward thinks.

⛓️

“Remind me again,” Edward says later that evening in the hotel room. “Why did we need to bring Hickey with us?”

Tozer shrugs, clips a set of handcuffs to his belt, where they shine bright against his black cargo pants. “Why wouldn’t we?”

 _Many, many reasons._ “That stunt with the butterfly knives and the sap gloves could have gotten us booted from the conference and the country both.”

Tozer raises his eyebrows. “You still hung up on that? We’re here, nobody gives a shit what we do during, and it’s not like we’re declaring this on our way back through customs.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Edward insists. Looks at himself in the mirror, frowns. The meet-and-greet tonight isn’t mandatory fetish attire, and the vinyl shirt makes it look like he’s trying too hard. He doesn’t want that, wants something that looks—casual. Safer. Makes him look like a nice boy, the kind of boy that the cutie might want to talk to for a couple minutes. He strips off the vinyl shirt, puts it back on the hanger, and stalks out of the bathroom back to the hotel room’s closet, where he hangs it up, and then stares at the rest of the things he’s brought. Black tshirt? Mesh top?

“…I know what this is about,” Tozer says, tying an orange bandana around his left bicep.

“Yeah?” _Fuck, if Hickey’s said something already, I’ll…_

“You’re still angling to help organize this thing, aren’t you. Sucking up to—the fuck is that guy’s name, it’s something goofy.”

Edward closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Opens them again, and looks at the closet. Black tank is probably the safest. He’ll pair it with black leather suspenders, leave them off his shoulders so they hang down his thighs. A slightly darker wash jean. Shoes instead of boots. Fingerless leather gloves.

“Goodsir,” Tozer says, finally. “That’s the guy.”

Edward shrugs, undoes his leather pants to swap them out for jeans. “It’s a lot of work to put something like this together. I like this conference.”

“It seems alright.” Tozer gives his suitcase a sharp kick so that it falls shut. “But honestly, I don’t know why you’d want to help organize the damn thing. You know that’s just more time spent sending emails instead of getting laid, right? Plus, you’ll end up stuck in this hotel an extra week, I’m sure.”

Edward pulls his shirt over his head, ignores the first half of Tozer’s question. “Hotel’s not bad.” He tugs his shirt the rest of the way down, fabric rubbing against the gold bars through his nipples and sending a shiver down his back. “Maybe if you unpacked, so you’re not living out of a suitcase all weekend.”

“Meh.”

Edward looks at himself in the mirror again. Fixes his hair, reaches for his suspenders. He should probably swap out to a fancier septum ring, at least. The rest of the jewelry can stay as it is. Subtle, but nice.

“Today, Little,” Tozer drawls.

Edwards glances down at his watch. Shit. Takes a deep breath. “Five minutes,” he says.

Behind him, Tozer sighs.

⛓️

Edward lifts his beer to his lips, takes another sip. He’s been nursing the hell out it for the last three hours, working up his nerve. He’s definitely going to talk to the cutie. Any minute now. He’s really goddamn close. He’s just—making sure that he’s covered all of his bases. Waiting for a break in the conversation that the cutie is having with the older guy that was in the booth next to him, who, incidentally, is the only person cutie has talked to all night.

(Older guy, thankfully, is wearing a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. Cutie isn’t. So there’s no obvious problems there.)

Cutie is exquisitely dressed tonight, though, hell. Dress pants and nicely shined shoes. Navy button-up shirt with anchors printed on it, French tucked, with the sleeves rolled back displaying his forearms. Bare wrists. The shirt is open at the collar, splayed wide to display an absolutely naked neck. No collar, no chain, no ownership tattoos, no nothing.

If Edward were a braver man, he’d set his beer down and go over there right now. Take the cutie by the elbow, whisper something nice in his ear. Listen to his breath catch. They’ve got time, and Edward can focus on this. Ask him what he likes, what he wants to do this weekend. Tell him how Edward can provide that for him—he’s got no plans, nobody he’s here with. He can do what cutie wants. Anything he wants. They can negotiate it right here as long as they keep their voices nice and quiet. Edward’s a good listener.

And then, the good stuff. Steering him back toward the wall, crowding him in. Listening to the way his breathing picks up. Teeth, in the beautiful place where his neck meets his shoulder, and tongue to soothe the sting of it afterwards. Searching out all the tender spots on cutie’s ribs, knuckles dragging down his sternum. Both of them, breathing in unison, panting into each other’s mouths. They look like they’re close to the same height, only Edward outweighs him by twenty, maybe thirty pounds. He wonders how fast cutie would run, if he’d want Edward to chase him down. Dungeon will be empty this time of night, probably not even set up because the first play party isn’t until tomorrow—but Edward would chase him in the empty room, toss a couple of beaten up gym mats to the floor for the part where Edward eventually wins, tackles him down and strips the clothing off him, baring his naked—

“Gonna save you some time here,” Hickey says.

Edward starts, beer sloshing out the neck of the bottle and over his hand. “Christ, Hickey, warn a guy.”

Hickey smiles sharply at him, tips his head to gesture across the room. “Did you a big favour, Little.”

There aren’t any napkins in the general vicinity. Edward briefly contemplates wiping his hand on Hickey’s too-tight shirt, settles for flicking his fingers sharply at the floor, licking the remainder of the spilled beer off his thumb. “How so?” he says tightly.

“Got some _reconnaissance_ achieved here tonight.” Hickey pronounces the word with a garbage French accent. “Figured you might want to know about it, since it’s directly relevant to your…interests.” He sticks his hand in the pocket of his latex cargo shorts, but it’s with feigned casualness.

“Yeah?” Edward says. Forces his voice to remain casual, except it’s not really casual anymore, because Hickey is looking across the room at the exact same guy that Edward has been staring at all night.

“His name’s Thomas Jopson,” Hickey says.

“Alright,” Edward replies. _Thomas Jopson_. Fuck, it’s a nice name. Suits him. He drags his eyes over Jopson’s body again, re-catalogues all the things he’s been making note of the entire night, only now he has a name to go with them, something he can breathe into Jopson’s ear when he goes over there to introduce himself. _Thomas Jopson…I’m Edward Little. I wanted to introduce myself—I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re gorgeous._

“Yeah,” Hickey says smugly. “He’s Crozier’s guy. Right-hand man, as it were. Here selling Crozier’s books.”

Edward can feel his stomach dropping. “ _Francis_ Crozier?”

“Yeah,” Hickey says. “So you should have plenty of things to talk about, shouldn’t you?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , there is no goddamn fucking way that Edward is going over there to—not Crozier’s right-hand guy, not—oh, fuck, why the fuck hadn’t Edward just looked at the fucking booth instead of spending all afternoon looking at the guy standing behind the booth, why hadn’t he—this guy is so out of Edward’s league it’s not even funny, he’s—oh, Christ, Jopson’s looking in his direction. Setting his drink down. Coming this way.

Edward shoves his beer at Hickey, turns on his heel, and heads for the exit.

“Come on,” Hickey calls from behind him. “Figure you’re not good enough?”

⛓️

The dungeon is, indeed, empty. The play equipment is all tightly packed in the centre of the room. Most of it’s still on pallets.

Edward sits there in the dark for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Notes:** various gear is mentioned in a sexual context, including police batons, sap (lead-shot weighted) gloves, paddles, and the like | Tozer and Hickey are both subtly kinkshaming Edward; Tozer, at least, means it as a joke | Edward is deeply into physical intimidation, biting, using his hands, and predator/prey-type play, though he doesn’t use that language |
> 
> **~~~THE END NOTES~~~**
> 
> **Misc Observations:** I'm sure the empty dungeon was very nice that time of night. And I believe what Tozer meant is that Sophia Cracroft doesn't suffer fools or assholes, and since Jopson is neither, they were having a lovely conversation. I can't see that she would want to talk to Tozer for longer than it would take him to introduce himself, though. The coffeeshop across the street is a Tim Horton's, and I, too, would like an entire library of Crozier's kink books. 
> 
> Aaaaahhh, okay!! Thank you for reading!! Chapter two, _Aware_ , goes up next Friday!!
> 
> If you'd like to read more, there's a [behind-the-scenes post on Tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/post/614393322223566848/fic-breakdown-for-closer-chapter-one-aka-the)!
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula) and on [tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/) and [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/heyktula).
> 
> My sincerest thanks to [Autumn](/users/for_autumn_i_am/), who beta-read this for me and also said some really profound things about artificial roadblocks that led to me rethink the entire way I tell stories (no big deal or anything). I also owe a great deal to [Deadsy](/users/deadsy/), who copy-edited and continues to support my bullshit, and to [Asher_Ephraim](/users/Asher_Ephraim/), who confirmed my words were words (but who calls saskatoon berries by the wrong name).


	2. Aware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The fuck got you out of bed this early in the morning? I told you, Hickey’s opening the booth. Finish your beauty sleep, Little.”
> 
> Or, the one where an intense amount of eye contact is happening at increasingly shorter distances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, here we are with chapter two! What is chapter length consistency, I don't know them.
> 
> Chapter notes are at the end.

“All right then, Jopson?”

Thomas smiles politely at Blanky, keeps his face turned away from the rest of the merch hall. “With all due respect, you know it isn’t.”

Blanky snorts, sets his cashbox down on top of the table with a clunk. “Gonna talk about it, or bottle it up?”

“Bottle, thank you.” Thomas keeps the smile up, reaches for his own cashbox. Flips it open, checks that his float is in order. He pulls the bookmarks out and neatly arranges them on the table—Francis hadn’t thought they were necessary, but Thomas likes them. It gives people something they can take with them for free, and lets them think about whether or not they want to purchase anything later.

“It’ll rot,” Blanky warns.

“Mmm,” Thomas says, his tone carefully neutral. He steps around the table to fix the final arrangement of Francis’ books, carefully keeping his back to the rest of the room. Makes sure everything is showcased properly, the spines of the books aligned and perfectly angled. Everything is displayed as cleanly as it can be. The newest book, titled simply _Rope_ , is displayed in the centre, nestled in cobalt velvet. Satisfied, Thomas ducks around behind the table again, carefully lint-rolls his clothing. He’s in darker colours today, a mid-grey linen shirt with the cuffs neatly rolled up past his elbows, slim-cut black trousers. He makes a mental note to keep an eye on his clothing throughout the day. The merch hall seems fine, but he overheard multiple groups of Canadians complaining about the dust at breakfast—something about the August heat, and the lack of rain. It will be something to focus on, and Thomas needs that.

(It’s just that last night hadn’t gone at all like he’d planned. He’d planned for at least an introduction to the heavily pierced guy from the military booth, maybe some good conversation and a goodnight kiss. He’d done his best to convey he was available, and interested, and had finally resorted to going over there himself, and gotten nothing but a hasty exit out of it. As though Thomas had breached some level of protocol he wasn’t aware existed. It sits in his stomach like a weight, like he’d misinterpreted the signals, ignored the rules. He doesn’t do that, usually. He’s better at reading people than that. He works for Francis Crozier, he knows how protocol works. Had Thomas let himself get distracted by the nipple piercings visible through the military guy’s white tank, or the horribly sensual way the guy tongues his lip piercings when he’s thinking? Had Thomas absolutely misread the whole situation, the staring that had been happening all afternoon?)

“I’ll tell Francis you’re stewing,” Blanky threatens.

“And I’ll tell him you’re lying,” Thomas replies lightly, banishing the thought of running his thumb along the pierced guy’s lower lip, from ring to stud, the bare skin where a labret _isn’t_ , and then the second stud and ring. “There’s nothing for you to tell Francis about, because nothing happened. Do you have everything you need for your talk later today?”

(His voice is a bit robotic, yes, but it’s dry in the convention hall. He got up early to get coffee for both of them, and once he drinks more of his own, his voice will loosen up, his throat will unclench, his stomach will unfurl. It’ll be fine, it always is.)

“You know I do,” Blanky says. “You checked the crate last night, and I’m sure you’ll check it again at lunch when I’m distracted by my sandwich and you think I’m not paying attention.” He glances across the hall, and then a grin breaks out on his craggy face. “Anyway, it’s not as bad as you’re thinking it is.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother turning away. This isn’t the first convention they’ve worked together, it won’t be the last, and Blanky has always encouraged familiarity. So the visible eye roll should be fine. “I think I’d rather just be sullen about it this morning, if you don’t mind. I’ll hide it as soon as the hall is open, but please give me my remaining—seven minutes of sulking?”

“Sure,” Blanky says. “But when you get a minute, you might want to look across the hall.”

“I don’t think I’d like to do that, thank you,” Thomas says primly. He moves the chair behind his table back a little further, checks the boxes underneath with the extra stock, makes sure the labels are all facing out. Fuck, he hopes they haven’t miscalculated the number of books they’ll sell this weekend. Francis is constantly trying to scale the numbers back, and Thomas is constantly scaling them up again, because Francis is notoriously pessimistic about sales—but Thomas had scaled them up extra this year. He’d had a good feeling about the new book.

(He has less of a good feeling about it now, but that’s a private feeling, and neither Blanky nor Francis needs to know about it. He’s not sure whether or not Francis was drunk when he changed the dedication to the book last minute, but it doesn’t really matter. This is how it went to print. They have what they have, and need to make the best of it.)

“Alright, everyone,” Goodsir calls from the middle of the hall. He’s holding a tablet and wearing a black and red buffalo check shirt. He looks every inch a Canadian even though his native accent still lingers, and his vowels aren’t quite as rounded as they might become. “We’re going to go ahead and open the doors—just as a reminder, merch is open from nine to ten today. For those of you presenting, first session is at ten. The dungeon opens tonight at eight for the mainstage performance, and the play party starts immediately afterwards. I’ll be around all day, back and forth between here and the presentation rooms—please get in touch with me if you have any questions or concerns. If you need someone to run your booth while you’re otherwise engaged and you haven’t talked to me about that already, please do that as soon as possible, and I’ll see what we can do for you. Have a phenomenal convention, everyone.”

Thomas claps politely when others do, takes a deep breath to steel himself for the influx of people. Scans his cheat sheet, tucked right next to his cashbox—a list of all Francis’ books, the year each was published, the topics covered within. He knows all this by heart—but it’s good to have it written down, just in case. There’s a more detailed master index he keeps underneath the cashbox, with a notebook on the other side in case anyone asks about something that Francis hasn’t written about yet—although those topics are getting fewer and farther between as the years go by. Everything looks good. He’s ready.

Thomas glances up, only meaning to watch the stream of people coming into the hall—but he looks straight forward first by accident. Realizes he’s being watched.

It’s the pierced guy at the military booth. His eyes are fixated on Thomas’ hand, where it’s resting on the top of his cash box, and he’s tonguing the gold stud and ring pair on his right lower lip. It’s not an incidental glance, either. He’s _staring_.

Thomas moves his hand, brings it up to adjust the collar of his shirt, and watches the pierced guy’s eyes track the movement all the way up Thomas’ body.

(It’s like he’s _hunting_ Thomas, and the thought makes Thomas warm all over.)

Their eyes meet.

(It’s already Saturday. It’s already Saturday, and this is an _opportunity_.)

Thomas maintains eye contact. Deliberately bites his lip, and flicks the top button of his shirt open.

The guy’s eyebrows rise, eyebrow rings glinting in the light, and he turns away, fumbles his coffee over himself. Curses sharply, reaches for a napkin to wipe off his leather trousers.

Thomas could spot-clean those pants for him. But he’s not going to offer. Not yet.

(He’s still got a chance. Whatever it was that went on last night—he’s still got a chance to fix it.)

“Told you so,” Blanky says from behind him.

“Nobody likes a braggart, Blanky,” Thomas says, but he can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face.

* * *

“Dude,” Tozer says, swinging his duffel bag off his shoulder and booting it under the table. “I had the _most repressed_ guy in my talk this morning, it was fucking brilliant.”

Edward folds his notes in half, shifts over behind the booth to make room. Across the hall, Jopson is taking someone’s money, counting out change and hardly looking at his cashbox. “Yeah?”

“It was goddamn beautiful, you should have _seen_ the look on his face.”

“Mmm.” Edward looks down at his notes again, unfolds and refolds the paper. In theory, he has them memorized. In actual practice, he’s wasted the morning spacing out, and he’s no more familiar with his notes now than he was when he woke up.

“Also, it reeks of coffee in here.”

Edward makes a vague gesture at his trousers, his eyes fixed across the hall as Jopson hands over the change and purchased books, which are neatly wrapped in brown paper. Wonders if Jopson’s fingers would be just as deft on Edward’s pierced nipples as they were on the string Jopson used to tie the packages shut. He forces himself to look away. Unfolds his notes, glances at his own printing with the list of definitions he wants to establish at the beginning of the panel, just so everyone is heading in the same direction. He and Tozer speak the same language, but there are three other people on the panel Edward’s never presented with before, and attempts to organize talking points through email in advance had failed miserably.

“Have you been like this all morning?”

Edward glances to Tozer. “Like what?”

“Fucking hell.” Tozer grins at him. “You’re a goddamn mess, Little. The fuck were you last night, anyways?”

“Went for a walk,” Edward lies. He exhales, tries to collect himself. Pages through his notes again, and then folds them up for a final time, sticks them in the back pocket of his trousers. It’ll be fine. Hopefully. “Sold a couple hundred worth of gear for you this morning.”

“No way,” Tozer says, delighted. “Already?”

“It’s been busy.”

“Speaking of busy,” Tozer says. “What’re you doing after the power play panel?”

Edward shuts his eyes, thinks about it for a moment. “I’m—”

“Wrong answer,” Tozer interrupts. “Need a favour.”

Edward shrugs, glances across the hall again. Jopson has come around this side of his booth, is explaining something animatedly to a small group of people gathered in front of the table. He’s mostly turned away from Edward, and his trousers are extremely well-fitted on his arse. Edward swallows. He’s pretty sure he can hear his own throat click, and is thankful Hickey has fucked off somewhere else. “I can work the booth for you.”

“Nah, I’ll get Hickey to do it,” Tozer says. “Want you to demo with me at my takedown thing. You look like you need it.”

“I’m fine,” Edward says automatically, but his eyes have already tracked across the hall to Jopson again. Fuck, he’s pretty. And it’s not like Edward doesn’t need a copy of the new Crozier book anyway, so there’s a built-in excuse to go over to Jopson’s booth and talk to him. And he’s gonna. Eventually. But there’s no rush. They’ve got all weekend. Edward can take his time.

(Maybe he can find a way to burn off some of this adrenaline so he doesn’t fuck up his approach. Plan it out in advance.)

Tozer jostles him, hard. “Come on, Little. Commit.”

Edward frowns, looks sidelong at Tozer. “Am I winning or losing?”

“Tell you what, I’ll let you pick,” Tozer says magnanimously. “You can see how you feel.”

“You gonna have crash mats this time?”

“Pussy.”

“My elbow was fucked up for a goddamn week from you tackling me like that.”

“Poor Little. Had to jerk off with the other hand for a whole week.” Tozer mimes the motion with his left hand, grinning like a banshee.

Edward frowns, feels his face going hot. “It also hurt to type.”

Tozer shrugs, grins. “Well, you can win if you want, I don’t give a shit. Got a good feeling about this weekend anyway.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Edward says softly. He looks across the hall again. Jopson is busy wrapping up a stack of books for someone with bright blue hair, and there’s three other people lined up behind them with books in their hands too, so he’ll be busy for a while. Which is fine. Edward’s busy too.

It’s nearly time for the panel anyway.

Maybe there’ll be an opportunity later this afternoon.

⛓️

“Shouldn’t you be looking at your notes, Ed?” Hickey asks.

“It’s my talk,” Tozer says. “Come off it, Hickey. Little doesn’t have to do shit except take a hit, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah,” Edward says absently. He’s watching Jopson chat happily to the guy in the booth beside him—Blanky, he’s learned. Makes handmade paddles, does a bit of leatherwork on the side. He’s holding a strip of leather in his hand now, burnishing the edge while listening to Jopson. Edward can’t quite tell what Jopson is talking about, they’re too far apart for him to be able to eavesdrop. He wishes he was over there, though. Listening.

“How’d that panel go this morning, anyway?” Hickey’s tone of voice isn’t a question, not exactly. It’s better left alone. It’s better ignored, it’s better—

“You should have seen it,” Tozer gripes. “Fuckin’ 101 hours over here, lads.”

“It was alright,” Edward says, tearing his eyes away from Jopson. Tozer and Hickey are both watching him, arms crossed over their chests. Tozer looks belligerent, like usual—Hickey just looks polite, which is a warning sign that Edward knows he should pay attention to. “Maybe we just need to alter the panel description. Make it sound more advanced.”

“Dunno how much more advanced it gets than ‘advanced’,” Tozer complains. “Maybe we’ll just get you to recite the dictionary definition of the word when you’re going over all the other preliminary garbage.”

(Across the hall, Jopson is smiling. It lights up his entire face. Edward wants to be responsible for that expression. He wants to map it with his tongue, envelop it with his lips, swallow it back. He wonders if Jopson kisses just as pretty as he looks, if it’s gentle and delicate and light. If Edward would feel the impression of Jopson’s lips after he’s pulled away.)

“I’m going for a piss,” Tozer says. “Hickey—Little and I have that takedown thing in twenty minutes, I need you to watch the booth.”

“Yeah,” Hickey says. “No problem. I got it.”

(Jopson glances in Edward’s direction. He’s still smiling. The smile doesn’t leave his face when he notices Edward is watching. Edward swallows.)

“You’re still on that, then?” Hickey says in an undertone. “Going to tear a pretty little thing like that up, send him back to Crozier in pieces?”

(Jopson turns, and Edward aches to put his hand on the small of Jopson’s back, untuck his shirt and dig his fingers in underneath Jopson’s waistband, rub his thumb along bare skin. _Mine_ , he thinks. _Mine, mine._ )

( _Please._ )

“We’ll be back in an hour,” Edward says, instead. “Float should be good on change, I checked it this morning. If you have any trouble with the card machine, try walking out by the silent auction items there, and point the machine toward the door. Wifi connection’s better.”

“Aye-aye,” Hickey says flatly.

⛓️

Edward stretches in the back of the room, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to Tozer talk with half an ear, while the rest of him undresses a mental image of Jopson. Unbuttons Jopson’s shirt, exposing his neck. Bites into his shoulder, laves at the pristine skin with his tongue, all the while with Jopson’s voice in his ear.

_Yes._

_Edward._

_More._

He bends, flattens his palms on the floor. Hangs there, breathing deeply, before lifting his hands and unlacing his boots, stepping out of them and stripping off his socks. Grounds himself in the texture of the short carpet under his bare feet. Breathes.

“—Edward Little here as tribute. He’ll demo specific moves with me as I’m talking about them, and then we’ll show you what a takedown scene might look like at the end.”

Edward swallows, takes another deep breath. Goes to the front of the room and stands next to Tozer. The conference room is similar to the one their power play panel was in earlier, except instead of a long table at the front of the room, there’s just empty space, and Tozer’s duffel bag tossed down onto the carpet. No crash pads, but no medical staff either. Edward scans the crowd, doesn’t see Jopson, and feels the tension release from his shoulders.

_You’ll chew him up, spit him out, and he won’t call you back._

(He’s got time to plan his approach.)

“You’ll note the size difference between us,” Tozer says. “You’ll also note we’re not together, so feel free to approach me after class, if you know what I mean.” His hand goes to his belt.

The room laughs.

Edward waits.

⛓️

“You didn’t tell me,” Tozer says in an undertone as he paces. “Whether you wanted to win or lose.”

“I don’t care,” Edward responds in the same soft voice. He flexes his hands, loosens them. Bounces on the balls of his feet, watching Tozer carefully so he doesn’t miss the initial lunge. “Fuck me up.”

“He thinks he’ll win,” Tozer says, a bit louder for the benefit of the audience.

They laugh. It’s been a good lecture so far. They’ve only lost a handful of people, the door opening and shutting while Edward was focused on the work he was doing with Tozer. He hasn’t paid attention to the specifics, because it’s not his talk, and it doesn’t matter. It’s nearly over now, and Edward has fully dropped into the mental space he plays in, where the only thing that matters is his own body, and that of the person he’s playing with. He doesn’t look at the crowd, won’t look at them, because the only thing that matters is Tozer, the location of his hands, his knees, his feet. He’s got more height, more reach than what Edward has, but Edward is faster. Tozer is big, and relies on his weight. Once he commits to a punch, he follows through on it. Edward can duck underneath, has the speed to pull his punches when he needs to. He can get in there close, hook his foot on Tozer’s ankle and pull, flatten him to the mat that way.

He ducks the first of Tozer’s punches, dodges the second and gets in under Tozer’s arm and up close to him, lands light punches on Tozer’s ribs, his abs. Manages to rush him halfway across the front of the room. When Edward tackles him, knocks him over, Tozer will go down flat, profile to the audience. That’s what Edward needs, that’s how he’ll go back to Jopson, victory singing in his veins and knuckles stinging, he’ll go back to Jopson knowing he pinned Tozer to the mat in his own class, he’ll go back to Jopson—

(There aren’t any mats, and no medical staff.)

—another dodge, and this time Tozer’s hand darts out, grabs Edward’s upper arm, and Edward has to wrench away from him, dance back lightly, it’s not a retreat. He’s not retreating, he’ll go back to Jopson and he’ll—fuck, wait, Tozer is closing the gap between them quickly—

Edward’s not sure what goes wrong.

He steps back, shifts his weight onto his back foot so he has the clearance to kick Tozer in the chest. His trousers hitch on his thighs a moment, and he’s calculated this wrong, he doesn’t have the clearance he thought he had—no problem, just step in close, curl his hand into a fist, jab at Tozer’s ribs, but—maybe his assessment is wrong, maybe his stride is too long, maybe he’s too high on adrenaline and anxiety and the memory of Jopson’s face, the blur of the audience in his peripheral vision that’s throwing him off because—

(He doesn’t know what’s gone wrong, but _oh_ , it’s very—)

Tozer steps in at the same time Edward does.

There’s a sudden blinding pain centred in Edward’s face.

By the time he hears Tozer’s whispered “shit, fuck, Little—”, the floor is already tilting below him, and Edward is going down.

He hits the carpet on his back, the air rushing out of his lungs before he gasps it back in.

He can hear his own breathing, feel his pulse throbbing hot around his septum piercing. There’s a heavy weight on his chest, and he forces his eyes to focus on Tozer’s camo-clad knee, pressing down into his sternum.

“—and that,” Tozer is saying, “is a takedown.”

The room erupts in applause, and that’s when Tozer leans in close enough that Edward can feel Tozer’s breath on his face.

( _Fuck_ , Edward’s nose hurts, and he can taste metal in the back of his throat.)

“Do _not_ bleed in here,” Tozer hisses. “Don’t fuck this up for me, I don’t know what the fuck your dumb ass was doing—”

“It’s fine,” Edward says. Reaches up, clasps Tozer’s arm with his hand. “It’s fine.”

⛓️

He pants, ragged, into the sink, blood dripping down onto white porcelain.

It’s fine.

He’s flying on adrenaline and not even his bare feet on the cool bathroom floor can ground him. The lights are dim, thank god. His head aches, spins vaguely.

Edward opens his mouth, drools blood and slobber. His tongue is throbbing. He must have bit it when he landed. When they somehow fucked up the easy choreography between them. When _Edward_ fucked it up, because everything Tozer did was just as predictable as it always is.

There’s no way he should have fucked that up, it was the worst kind of mistake. He’s fought with Tozer before. Edward _knows_ his fight choreography, knows it never changes. He has no idea how they managed to step toward each other at the same fucking time. Edward must have misread the cues. Missed a step or a signal. He’s furious with himself, he’s jeopardized Tozer’s panel, he’s put his own place at the convention at risk—there’s a smear of blood on the back of his hand, so he thinks he covered his nose before he visibly bled in the panel, but he’s not sure, they didn’t have medical present, blood is a potential pathogen—

The door to the bathroom opens, closes.

Edward turns, hands coming up into a defensive—fuck, Christ, his fucking _head_. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Swallows. Breathes through his mouth, because he can’t through his nose. Listens to the decisive _click_ as the bathroom door is locked, and, fine, that’s Tozer come to give him shit and he deserves that, he deserves it for fucking up—

“Hey,” comes a soft voice. “Are you alright?”

Edward takes a step back, then another. It’s not Tozer, it’s not, it can’t be—oh, fuck, hell, this isn’t right, he isn’t ready, he has nothing prepared, hasn’t finalized his approach, it’s—not like this, not like this, he shouldn’t—he opens his eyes, blinks, tries to focus in the dim light, at the careful figure approaching him, and oh, hell, he’s even more gorgeous up close—

Jopson takes another step forward, his hands down at his sides, palms facing Edward. “I saw what happened,” he says. His voice is gentle, low. Hypnotic.

Edward’s back is against the wall. He can feel the cool tile through his sweat-damp tank. Jopson’s grey shirt is still undone at the collar, his neck exposed. Edward wants to ground himself there, but he can’t move, won’t impose.

“My name’s Thomas Jopson,” Jopson says, and even though Edward knew, already, this feels like a gift, like a benediction, like Jopson is giving Edward something.

(He’s giving Edward his _name_.)

“Edward Little,” he rasps. His pulse is pounding in his throat. His head aches. He wants to fold Jopson into his arms, sink to the floor. Share the same oxygen.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jopson says warmly. His voice is soothing, like fingers down the back of Edward’s spine, like a hand on the back of his neck.

Edward shudders, eyes fluttering shut. “Hi.”

“You’re bleeding,” Jopson says. He’s closer now, his footsteps nearly inaudible on the floor. “May I help you?”

Edward should have planned out what he was going to say. He should have—he needed to—he can’t, this isn’t—he— “Yes.”

Water, running. The tap on the sink nearest to them. Jopson is near-silent as he moves, shifts. Edward swallows back a pant, tries to focus on his heart. His lungs. The way his breath moves in and out. Chest rising. Falling. He flattens his palms onto the wall behind him so he won’t do anything stupid. Braces himself for cold water, for wet paper towels roughly applied, for—

“Just here,” Jopson says softly, and then there’s warm wet fabric under his nose, gently dabbing just above his lip. Edward can feel the presence of Jopson’s body, even though Jopson isn’t otherwise touching him. Can hear him breathing. “It’s not much, it’ll only take me a moment. Can’t have you wandering around the convention like this, you’ll scare the new people.”

“You’re…”

“Ah, no, not me,” Jopson says, voice tinged with amusement. “I’m afraid it takes more than that to scare me, Edward Little.”

“Please, call me…”

“…Little?” The cloth dabs one more time under his nose, and then is gone. The tap runs again. “Edward, perhaps?”

Edward opens his eyes. Watches Jopson shut off the tap and take his wet handkerchief, black to hide the blood. Jopson takes Edward’s hand in his as he gently rubs at the smear of blood on the back of Edward’s hand, the cloth moving in small circles. Jopson’s fingers are warm against his palm.

Edward exhales. “Edward is fine.”

“Well, then, Edward. That was quite the display.”

“You weren’t—I didn’t intend—”

“Very powerful,” Jopson says warmly, and his eyes flick up from Edward’s hand, meet Edward’s own. They’re remarkably light, his eyes. The pupils are dilated.

Edward can’t quite catch his breath. “It wasn’t meant to be like that. Tozer and I work together regularly, it’s usually—safe. I just. I miscalculated.”

“It was a spectacular show, regardless.” Jopson rubs his handkerchief on the back of Edward’s hand again, and then sets it on the counter. “You’re very...intense.”

He’s still holding Edward’s hand in his own.

“One of the better quality sessions I’ve seen this weekend,” Jopson says.

His hand is so _warm_.

“Anybody can give a good talk,” Edward says. “It’s just—preparation.” Preparation that he and Tozer hadn’t done. “Having your notes together.” He should probably stop talking, but his face is still throbbing, and if he stops talking, Jopson might leave. He doesn’t want Jopson to leave. “A plan.” Fuck, they should have—they should have planned this better, they should have—he’d rather be meeting Jopson at the end of a successful demo fight like he’d planned, high on having outsmarted Tozer, wrestled him to the ground. He should be shaking Jopson’s hand with the taste of victory in his mouth. He wants Jopson to look at him with admiration, although Jopson isn’t looking at him with pity right now either, it’s…something else, it’s… “I mean, you’d give a good talk. People would listen to you. _I’d_ listen to you.”

(He should stop talking, he needs to stop talking.)

Jopson’s mouth tilts up in a small smile. “I mean, I’ve thought about it…”

“Yeah?” Edward breathes. He carefully leans forward, away from the wall. Sways towards Jopson, who shifts back a little, but is still holding Edward’s hand.

Still smiling.

“Yeah,” Jopson says. “I mean, you’ve looked at the list of sessions this weekend—”

Edward hasn’t.

“—you must see there are gaps. I was thinking, maybe, there’s another conference in six months...”

“Right.” Edward takes a wet breath through his mouth. Wishes his nose wasn’t plugged, wishes he could smell Jopson. He would smell like clean linen, maybe. Or a forest. The beach. Rain. “I’d take a look at your proposal.”

Jopson smiles, and Edward’s heart stutters in his chest. “Would you really?”

“I don’t just…do this,” Edward says. “The…the physical stuff. I have…other interests.” Fuck, he sounds incoherent. He _is_ incoherent, and he should stop talking, but if he stops talking, all they have is this, all they have is this one moment in a locked bathroom, and Edward wants more, he wants to devour everything Jopson will offer him, he wants to own the things Jopson will give him, keep them safe and protected. “I’ve been in the scene for a while now, I can…”

“I would appreciate that so much,” Jopson says, and he squeezes Edward’s hand before letting go and reaching into his pocket for his phone. His thumbs are quick on the touchscreen, moving swiftly as he navigates through menus, and Edward is suddenly thankful that he’s not the one doing this. (He still uses his index fingers on his own phone, and isn’t nearly as fast.) “Can you type your email address in here?”

Edward takes the phone, pecks out his email address in the _to:_ field. Glances at the rest of the email, and notices the title of the talk. _Navigating BDSM as a Transgender Man_. He looks up at Jopson.

“Thank you,” Jopson says. He smiles, encouragingly. “Doesn’t matter if you’re not an expert, I need an outside opinion on this—it’s difficult to get editorial distance on something that’s a lived experience—”

“Right,” Edward says. “No, I understand that completely, I can—please, yes, let me help.”

Jopson smiles wide enough to show his teeth, and Edward is smitten.

“I’ll have to take my phone from you,” Jopson says lightly. “Unfortunately, I need to get back to my booth.”

“Right,” Edward says, handing the phone over. It should feel like the spell is broken, but instead, it just feels—suspended. Like they’ll pick this up again in a moment, because this is a temporary break: as soon as they get in close physical proximity again, they’ll be right back in each other’s orbit. “I should, uh. Right.”

“Email sent,” Jopson says. A piece of his hair has fallen forward into his eyes, and he reaches up, brushes it back into place. “I’ll talk to you soon, Edward.”

“Yes,” Edward says. “Please.”

It’s only after Jopson’s left that Edward realizes his black handkerchief is still on the edge of the sink. Edward carefully washes it, wrings it out, folds it. Tucks it into his back pocket. It feels like a trophy.

Like something he’s _won._

⛓️

Edward is reading Jopson’s talk for the third time, scrolling through his phone slowly to make sure he’s absorbing all the words, that he’s understanding everything Jopson is communicating to his audience. Everything that Jopson is communicating to _him_ , directly to Edward. (Language, and struggle, and visibility, and being _seen_.) Jopson is brilliant, and it feels like something Edward should have known about him before. Now that he knows, now that he sees, he wants simultaneously to be with Jopson, always, and to somehow better himself before he tries to get close to Jopson again.

There’s nothing he can even suggest here. There’s no way that Goodsir and Silna will turn this talk down—it’s higher quality than many of the things Edward has presented over the years, and he’d had no problem getting his talks accepted for this conference. Jopson’s talk is honest and practical, with an edge of understated humour to it that will look beautiful on his face, with his enigmatic half-smiles and the lock of hair that keeps falling forward over his eyes. Jopson’s talk is something that should be published, should be displayed on the table with the rest of the things Jopson is selling. Something that Edward, selfishly, wants to keep to himself, because it’s just—intimacy after intimacy that Jopson is sharing here, that he is sharing with _Edward_ , and the sheer emotion of it is bringing Edward to his knees.

(The intimacy of having _this_ shared with him, of the way that Jopson just freely offered it up—the intimacy is wrecking him, slicing through his chest to his heart, as though he’s so exposed by it that Jopson will be able to hear Edward’s heart beating within the cage of his ribs.)

“Oi, arsehole. Brought you your boots, the fuck you hiding out here for?”

There’s a dull thump down by Edward’s feet, which he suddenly remembers are bare, and have been since he ducked out of the conference room to clean himself up.

Edward looks up sharply, squints.

Tozer takes a step back. “You been here the whole time?”

Edward looks down the empty hallway, and then back up at Tozer. Shrugs, pulls his legs in so that he’s sitting cross-legged, and his bare feet are tucked underneath where they aren’t so obvious. “Guess so.”

Tozer nods. Hesitates. Stares steadily at a point on the wall above Edward’s head. “That demo did go sideways a bit.”

“And?”

Tozer glances down at him, and then gestures at his own face. Looks back at the wall.

Edward rubs at his eyes, then touches his finger and thumb together. They’re damp.

“Don’t wanna have a discussion about feelings if we don’t have to,” Tozer says gruffly.

“No need.” Edward sniffs, then gestures vaguely to his nose, careful not to touch it. “Septum piercing.”

“Oh,” Tozer says. And then, after a moment. “ _Oh._ ”

“We’re good,” Edward says. “Thanks for bringing my boots.”

“No problem,” Tozer says, already backing away, and turning to leave.

Edward checks his watch. Forty minutes until his talk. He should review his notes.

He looks down at his phone.

Scrolls up to the top of Jopson’s email, and starts reading it all over again.

⛓️

Edward has rehearsed exactly what he’s going to say, walks over to Jopson’s booth with his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He catches Blanky’s eye, and that’s fine, even though his eyebrow immediately rises, it’s fine, Edward knows exactly what he’s going to say, he knows—

—and then Jopson turns, sees Edward, and immediately smiles at him, warm and welcoming. “Edward!”

The words are immediately gone.

He doesn’t trip over his own feet, but he does bump the edge of the table, immediately puts his hands on the surface to steady it.

Swallows.

“This is brilliant, you know that,” he blurts. “Jopson. Your—you realize how good your talk is?”

Jopson’s ears go pink. “Thank you,” he says, pleased. He brings his hand up, pushes his hair back.

Behind him, Blanky chuckles.

“Let’s walk,” Jopson suggests. He glances at Edward, eyes tracking politely and quickly up and down the length of Edward’s body, lingering only momentarily on Edward’s belt, at the empty carabiner dangling on his right hip where he usually hangs his gloves. “Do you need to grab anything?”

“No,” Edward says, glancing at his watch. “I have—I have a bit of time. Not much.”

“We’ll be quick,” Jopson says. He closes his cashbox, hands it off to Blanky, comes around the table.

(Edward still can’t smell for shit, but, oh, it’s a race to see what kills him first—the exposed length of Jopson’s neck, or the bone structure of his wrists. The desire to bite him, or the desire to pin him back against a wall.)

“Have you eaten?” Jopson asks.

Edward blinks at him, takes a couple quick steps to get ahead of him. They’re closer to the back of the hall than the front, but Edward wants to be in position to hold the door open for Jopson. They don’t speak as they walk through the hall—but they don’t need to, either. The little half-smile on Jopson’s face is enough to sustain Edward completely. He could survive _years_ like this.

He holds the door open for Jopson when they get to the hall entrance. It’s not necessary, it’s not needed—but Jopson glances over to Edward anyway. Smiles.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “The question stands, though, Edward Little—have you eaten?”

“I, uh,” Edward says. They’re walking down the hall, and literally anyone could walk past Edward right now—fucking _James Fitzjames_ could walk past Edward right now—and there is no way in hell he would notice, because Jopson is _right there_ and he’s glancing at Edward sidelong, and Edward suddenly acutely regrets that he’s presenting, even though he loves this talk more than any of the other talks that he ever gives—regrets that he isn’t giving the talk tomorrow, because that would give him enough time to gently broach the subject with Jopson tonight, make sure that Jopson isn’t going to be weirded out by it, make sure that he can get ahead of this so that he could actually invite Jopson, be sure he wouldn’t just run off after, once he knows about Edward—

_Best keep your mouth shut about those fetishes._

"—shouldn't eat before I present," Edward manages, and curses himself even though the open expression on Jopson's face doesn't change one bit.

"Of course," Jopson says. His fingers brush Edward's elbow in a gesture so light it could have been an accident. The hotel hallways are plenty wide, but there are people gathering outside the rooms, chatting in small groups, and it narrows the space, presses them in. (Maybe it was an accident.) They’re walking side-by-side, Jopson just a fraction behind Edward, and Edward can’t tell if it’s on purpose. (Maybe it’s on purpose, dare he hope it’s on purpose?) It doesn’t matter. Edward will have to split off momentarily to go to the room he’s presenting in. He doesn’t want to. He only wants to lead Jopson to a deserted corner, breathe praise into his ear, nip at his neck, make sure that he knows—

"Exquisite," he says instead. It's a completely non sequitur and Jopson is too polite to call him on it, just smiles at him, eyes bright. "Your work," Edward says in a rush to clarify. "The talk you sent me, I—read and reread it, thank you, I—" Fuck, this is all coming out wrong. He was right to think Jopson is out of his league, it's foolish to think an elegant man like this will stoop to the level of a base man like Edward. "Exquisitely written and very well done and—"

Beside him, Jopson slows, stops walking. Leans against the wall, raises his eyebrows. "You don't need to flatter me."

"I very much do," Edward says, stepping in closer and lowering his voice. "You absolutely need to be flattered, everyone should be lining up to tell you how brilliant you are." Fuck, he should have planned this better. Written it down. Should have—

"Oh," Jopson says softly, and his eyes go wide. "You think..."

_I know,_ Edward wants to say, and there's a place right between Jopson's legs for Edward's thigh, and a place at his hip for Edward's hand and another at his neck, and Edward's mouth should be right next to Jopson's ear—but he’s acutely conscious of the other people in the hallway, how this is being perceived by them, whether his conduct is becoming, whether it’s appropriate, whether it’s going to work out. Edward is acutely conscious that he and Jopson haven't discussed any of this, and Jopson's polite refusal will crush Edward.

(Men like Hickey, like Tozer, like Edward—he knows how they’re perceived. It's called edge play for a reason, and Edward wants, badly, for Jopson to return his interest—but he's presenting in mere minutes, and the time they have left isn't enough for him to lay himself bare in a way that won't scare Jopson off. People are watching. People are listening. There’s no polite way to phrase the things that Edward wants to do to Jopson, the things he wants Jopson’s enthusiastic consent for.)

Edward clears his throat, takes a deliberate step back. "You'll have no problem getting the talk accepted, and I'll be right there in the front row to listen." He swallows. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—crowded you in like that."

There's a quick flicker of...something...across Jopson's face before he straightens, steps away from the wall. He pushes his hair back, hands flitting gracefully across his body making a series of minute adjustments to his clothing. His eyes glance down Edward’s body, and then back up to his face. "Speaking of talks, I suppose you have yours."

Edward's brain still feels like it's mired in where they were thirty seconds ago, and he’s slow to shift gears. "I…do, yeah. The talk."

Jopson offers him another smile. His face is slightly pink. His tongue darts out, swipes quickly across his lips. "I'll...leave you to it, then."

"Wait," Edward says, and he steps in front of Jopson without thinking—and then catches himself, steps back. "Sorry, I…”

(He wants Jopson to step in close—but Jopson stays where he is.)

“Prepare for your talk, Edward,” Jopson says softly. “Of all the things I want to…” He swallows. The flush on his cheeks is more prominent now. “I shouldn’t be distracting you.”

“You’re not—” Edward starts—but then he stops, swallows the rest of the words.

(He _is_ , and they both know it.)

“I’ll see you after,” Jopson says. He leans in close. “ _Edward_ ,” he says, lips so close to Edward’s ear he can feel Jopson’s breath.

Edward swallows. Nods.

Watches Jopson go.

⛓️

The talk hasn’t started yet. It’s not going well.

For one thing, Hickey is sitting in the front row to Edward’s right, watching Edward like a hawk and smirking.

For another, Jopson is sitting in the front row to Edward’s left, notebook open on his lap, fountain pen in his right hand.

And the rest of the room is nearly full, for some godforsaken reason. _101 hours_ , he thinks, remembering the panel with Tozer earlier that morning—but this doesn’t look like that, this looks like a room full of people who are very intent and ready to learn, and Edward is not at all ready to teach them.

It’s not the biggest group he’s spoken to. Twenty, maybe thirty people. About two thirds of what this particular room will hold. Twice the people he thought he was going to get. Thirty times the number of people he wants to present to. He would dismiss every single one person in here just to keep Jopson, he would empty every chair in this room and shove them out of alignment, out of their semi-circled rows, clear the entire space so that he can show Jopson how well Edward could dissect him, show him exactly—

Edward swallows. Addresses a point at the back of the room, over everyone’s heads. “Alright. I’m Edward Little, and this is a session on rough play, which means we’ll be focusing on physical play, no implements. This means using knuckles, elbows, pressure points. Fists. Feet. If punching and kicking are not your thing, this is not your panel. This kind of play can look brutal.” He forces himself to scan the back row of chairs, creating the illusion of eye contact. “That’s because it is. All play should be negotiated in advance, and this kind of play is no exception.” Forces himself to drag his eyes forward, hoping for a moment of Jopson’s eye contact, something to encourage him—but Jopson is diligently taking notes in his notebook, and Edward won’t risk anything other than a cursory glance, because Hickey is watching.

Edward takes a step back, and his heel hits the crash pads that are laid out on the floor. Fuck. He needs to—he needs to address that. “Typically this talk contains a demo, which—” He scans the front row again, stomach twisting. Jopson is making eye contact now, eyes shining—but so is Hickey.

This is the place in his talk where Edward usually asks for volunteers.

(He hasn’t had time to prep Jopson. He’s going to scare him off. A panel on punching and kicking is the tip of the fucking iceberg that is Edward Little and his kinks, and Jopson is a nice man, a kind man with soft eyes and beautiful hair, a man that Edward desperately wants to take to pieces. If he asks for a volunteer, Jopson is going to put up his hand—and so is Hickey, and Edward cannot tolerate either of those options, for drastically different reasons. Not today.)

“—is not going to happen,” he says. Gestures at his face. “As you can see, I took a hit earlier today. My judgement is—lacking, and I’m—altering the talk. No demonstrations. Sorry.”

(On his right, Hickey makes a disgruntled noise. Edward steadfastly stares at the back of the room, looking neither at Hickey nor at Jopson, because if he looks over and Jopson is making any kind of eye contact whatsoever, the rest of Edward’s talk will disintegrate out of his memory completely.)

Edward clears his throat, focuses on a chair in the back row, and starts discussing consent negotiation. He covers it in the same meticulous way he usually does—but his eyes keep wandering back to Jopson, and the careful way that he’s taking notes, the beautiful slant of his handwriting, the lock of hair that keeps falling forward over his eyes that Edward wants to brush back—and then pull, hard, forcing Jopson’s head back, exposing his neck to Edward’s teeth.

He talks about pressure points, about impact. How to safely use the different parts of the hand, all the while imagining if he’d had the courage to bring Jopson up as a volunteer. If he’d had the courage to take him apart in front of an audience. If he’d had the courage to trust that Jopson might like it. He talks about how to safely take someone down to the ground, all the while reliving the way Tozer’s elbow had slammed into his face earlier that morning, the blood he’d spat into the sink, Jopson’s handkerchief wiping away the blood, that same handkerchief stuck, now, in his back pocket, and he wishes he’d had the courage to wear it visibly, so that everyone knew—so that _Jopson_ knew—

—and it is agony, doing this talk with Jopson in the room, because with every sentence that comes out of Edward’s mouth, another part of his public persona is peeled away, another layer of skin gone. If it’s not the talk of punching that scares Jopson off, it will be the brutal takedowns. If it’s not the takedowns, it’ll be the kicking. If it’s not the kicking, it’ll be the lead-shot gloves that Edward usually wears, that he would have with him, clipped onto his belt, if they ever played back in England—but he’s nearly the entire way through the talk, and Jopson is still sitting there in the front row, listening intently, and writing everything down. This is too good to hope for, this is _too much_ to hope for, this is not a thing that Edward is allowed to have. An enthusiastic Jopson is not something that Edward deserves, but he’s still _here_ , and he hasn’t _left_ and Edward has slipped up throughout the course of this talk, he’s described too many scenes, gotten into too much detail. He’s digging his own grave here, in front of a room full of people who are hanging on his every word, because there’s only one person in there that he would literally take absolutely anything from, but he’s showing Jopson everything and—

His phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he awkwardly brings his sentence to a close, stops talking, looks at his watch. “It’s, uh. Ten minutes remaining in the session, I’ll.” He swallows. “I’ll take questions.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hickey’s hand shoot up. Edward turns the other direction, scans the front row. Jopson is not raising his hand, he’s just—watching intently, and it’s enough to make Edward feel feral all over again. He shifts on his feet, looks across the rest of the room. Takes a question about stomach punches— _timing has to be just right, and the bottom needs to contract their muscles in advance to avoid damage_ —and another one about face-slapping— _steady their head with your other hand, you want the impact, but not a wrenched neck_ —and then the room goes silent.

There are still six minutes left.

Hickey’s hand is still up. Edward glances at him, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to start talking, so Edward turns, quickly, realizes that Jopson’s hand is also up. Jopson is watching him steadily, his cheeks pink just like they were out in the hall, when Edward had crowded him against the wall. Jopson’s lips are parted slightly and Edward knows what the right thing is, he knows what he needs to do, he knows and he—

—panics.

“The gentleman on my—” _fuck fuck fuck he’s looking at me_ “—right.”

_Fuck._

Hickey grins like a cat, leans back in his chair, legs stretching out in front of him. He’s wearing a pair of Tozer’s boots. “So this isn’t a question so much as a comment—”

Edward regrets every decision in his life that has led him to this point.

“—and it’s about your blog, actually.”

“Yeah?” Edward says absently. Jopson has put his hand back in his lap, over his notebook, and Edward is dying to know what he’s been writing, what notes he’s taken, whether he’s still interested in Edward or whether this is the end of it and it won’t go any further from here, and all he’ll get is polite smiles and dropped eye contact for the rest of the conference, the agonizing day and a half still left. (He could have reversed it if he’d had more _time_ , if he could have broken it to Jopson gently, if he could have—)

“Yeah, you’d written that post about anal fisting—”

Edward’s head snaps around and he _stares_ at Hickey, who is still—is still talking, going into horrific detail about technique and risk, Hickey who actually utters the word _prolapse_ right here, right in front of Jopson, in a room full of people who were only here to hear Edward talk about—about how to safely beat people up, not—not a blog post from five years ago that he’d kept up because there’s hardly any information out there and he wanted to make sure that people were aware of the risks and safety concerns, and—and Hickey is still fucking _talking._ Edward’s face is hot, his tongue thick in his mouth, his heart falling through the floor, his ears ringing, and he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out, coughs and swallows and clears his throat, and Hickey is still _talking_ and it’s just getting more and more graphic as he goes, filth spilling out of his mouth like he’s talking about the weather, and people in the back of the room are getting up and leaving—it’s not just the back of the room, it’s actually the middle of the room as well—oh god, people are leaving, and Jopson is still sitting here, and Hickey is—Hickey is still talking and—Jopson has his hand up and Edward can’t even look at him, can’t even make eye contact, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes except he can still hear Hickey droning on and on and Jopson’s hand is still up.

Fuck, what he wouldn’t give to have Tozer here, except what the fuck is Tozer going to do to fix any of this, he never would have ended up in this situation—this is about the butterfly knives, isn’t it, the butterfly knives that are still locked in the van—Edward was right about the butterfly knives, but fuck, it’s costing him everything, it’s costing him—

“You’re being disingenuous,” someone says sharply.

Hickey stops talking.

Edward blinks. Scans the mostly empty room, eyes landing on Jopson, only Jopson isn’t looking at him anymore. Jopson is staring at Hickey, and he looks _furious_.

“It’s right there on the blog post,” Jopson continues, fingers clenched on his notebook. “The exact same blog post you’re citing has the answers to the questions you’re asking, and it’s disingenuous of you to…to purposefully derail his panel and pretend that the answers aren’t _right there_.”

“I just think—” Hickey starts.

Jopson glares at him, snaps his notebook shut, and deliberately turns his body away, puts his hand up.

Edward stares at him, mouth open, in complete silence.

Jopson’s hand wavers, and Edward nods, still unable to speak. Gestures at him.

Jopson’s posture relaxes slightly as he exhales. “I was wondering about aftercare,” he says. “What you would normally recommend.”

Edward nods. Opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.

He’s saved by the door opening at the back of the room, the realization that his time is up, that the next talk is starting soon.

(He doesn’t feel saved at all. He feels like he’s drowning in the things he didn’t say.)

He gestures wordless at the back of the room, turns away from everyone. Scrubs his hands back through his hair, worries at his lip piercings with the tip of his tongue.

Turns around to see that Jopson is hovering at the back of the room by the door, watching Edward.

Edward gives him a weak thumbs-up.

Jopson nods, slips out of the room.

Hickey has already disappeared.

_Fuck_.

⛓️

“Hey, Little—hey! Little!”

Edward turns sharp, hands open. “What.”

Tozer tilts his head. “The fuck’s up with you?” He’s leaning casually against the wall, thumb hooked in his belt, fingers loose over the buckle.

Edward exhales heavily, tries to collect himself. “Sorry. What did you need?” Rocks on the balls of his feet, because he’s still furious at Hickey, turned on by Jopson, messed up over how badly he’d fucked the presentation and he doesn’t have a damn outlet—

“Nothing,” Tozer says. “Just want you to tell Hickey I’m gonna need him to take another hour on the booth. I’m busy.” He splays the fingers of his hand suggestively, curls them around his buckle again, and it’s only then Edward notices the neatly-groomed guy. He’s standing a healthy distance away from Tozer but is, nevertheless, staring at Tozer’s hand, his lip curled in a prim expression of distaste.

“ _Another_ hour?” Edward asks.

Tozer shrugs. “I ain’t been back there for two hours. Meant to come to your talk. Didn’t. How’d it go?”

“Hickey was—” Edward shuts his mouth, worries at his lip piercing. “In attendance,” he manages. “Not at your booth.”

“Fucking peckerhead,” Tozer says, straightening up and rolling his shoulders, his eyes flashing. “I needed him to do some goddamn _work_.”

“Yeah, well,” Edward says, but it’s too late, Tozer is already heading toward the merch hall.

Normally, he’d follow after Tozer, calm him down, at least get him and Hickey to take it out to the car park—but Edward is absolutely aching to talk to Jopson, he never answered Jopson’s question about aftercare, he never said thank you, he never—

“It’s not too late,” says someone behind Edward.

Edward turns.

It’s the guy that was watching Tozer. His eyes are burning with fanaticism. “It’s not too late,” he repeats. “Your crisis is an opportunity to repair yourself.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Edward says. “Excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

⛓️

Edward tongues one of his lip studs as he goes back into the vendor hall. There’s a box of those doughnut hole things dangling from his fingertips. It’s a wild guess...he has no idea what Jopson might like to drink, but everybody likes doughnuts, right? Especially Canadian ones, with the maple whatever.

(Fuck, he hopes Jopson likes doughnuts. Accent aside, it’s possible that Jopson has emigrated here just the same as Goodsir had, and maybe the maple isn’t a novelty anymore. But Jopson is obviously working for Crozier, and Edward is ninety percent sure Crozier is still located in London. Fuck, though. What if he’s emigrated, too? What if Jopson is doing all the work long distance? Fuck. _Fuck._ )

His eyes go first to Jopson’s booth. It’s busy, a small cluster of people there paging through Crozier’s books, and Jopson deftly wrapping up more purchases. Edward smiles just to see the competent way that Jopson moves behind the booth, handling packages and money and business cards, and can picture the exact calming tone of his voice as he speaks to everyone, occasionally reaching over the table to point out specific books. Then Edward glances over at Tozer’s booth, just long enough to see that Tozer is there, and looks to be in the process of selling one of his leather body harnesses.

(Hickey’s nowhere to be seen, and good fucking riddance.)

Edward fully intends to browse his way through the merch hall slowly, get to Jopson’s just as the crowd diminishes—but he can’t bring himself to spend a bunch of time looking at rabbit-fur floggers or sex toys that he has no intention of purchasing. Lady Silence has a booth with play piercing kits that Edward is definitely interested in—but there’s a group of Indigenous women there right now, laughing and signing excitedly to each other, and it’s way too intimidating for him to go up there when it’s already crowded.

Blanky’s booth, though, is right next to Jopson’s, and has the benefit of being unmanned at the moment, and it’s here that Edward retreats. The booth smells, comfortingly, like leather, and a little bit like wood polish. He drags his fingers experimentally over the surface of a paddle. Doesn’t see the appeal from the handle end of the thing—what would you even feel?—but he can see how it might be nice to receive. He picks one up. Solid, with a nice heft to it. Rotates it, tests the balance. Very nice, if you’re into that kind of thing, which he generally—

“The heavier ones are the other side of the booth,” Jopson says from behind him.

Edward stills, glances over his shoulder. Meets Jopson’s eyes—direct, open, intense—and immediately slides his gaze down Jopson’s body, gets fixated on his bare neck, and can’t go further. He swears he can see Jopson’s pulse. Wants to see it. Feel it under his fingers.

“Unless I’ve got the wrong impression,” Jopson continues. “But I don’t think I do.”

Edward swallows. Sets the paddle down gently, closes his hand into a fist, and then opens it, wiggling his fingers. “You’ve got the right of it,” he says, voice low. “Though I don’t usually...”

“Of course,” Jopson says. “Bare hands, yes?”

(Fuck, his _eyes_. How can Jopson bear to walk around like this, with his face so open and trusting?)

Edward nods. “Bare hands.” Swallows. “Sap gloves, back in England, only…”

Jopson chuckles. “Not legal in Canada,” he says. “It’s rather a good thing we don’t live here, huh?”

Edward exhales, a rush of relief. “Right. Yeah. Exactly. Speaking of which. I brought…” He holds up the box of doughnut holes. Fuck, what had Goodsir called them?

Jopson’s face lights up. “My saviour, I’m starving.” His fingers brush Edward’s as he leans over the table separating them and reaches for the box, carefully opening it without taking it from Edward. He purses his lips, looks at the selection a moment before plucking two out. Glances up at Edward, considering—and then pops the chocolate one into his own mouth, holds the other one out to Edward. Raises his eyebrows.

Edward leans in, carefully takes the doughnut from between Jopson’s fingers with his teeth. It tastes like maple.

Jopson is watching him chew, cheeks pink.

Edward swallows. Brings his hand up to his mouth. “Fuck, have I got food on my face?”

“No,” Jopson says softly. “Just—your tongue.”

“Ah,” Edward says. “It’s, uh. Pierced. Yeah.”

“I can see that,” Jopson says. “It’s—oh, sorry, one minute.” He turns and retreats back behind his own booth, starts chatting to the person standing there, browsing through some of the books.

Edward takes a deep breath. Exhales. Tries to collect himself. Turns back to Blanky’s booth just so he’s not staring at Jopson while Jopson is trying to work—and, oh, his eyes land on the collars. They’re beautifully made, heavy duty enough to stand up to the kind of play that Edward likes, and these? These, he can picture on Jopson. It’s not like the paddles at all, where they’re nice but foreign—the leather under his fingers feels very familiar, and he knows exactly how it would feel to undo the buckles at the back, carefully guide the collar around Jopson’s neck. The collar would be stiff, the first few times, but they’d be able to work the stiffness out of it with use. The leather would learn the shape of Jopson’s neck just as surely as Edward’s fingers will the leather perfectly fits to his neck, the shape of the d-rings familiar as Edward hooks his fingers into them and _tugs_ —

“Penny for your thoughts,” Jopson says. He’s still behind his booth, which is entirely too far away from Edward. “And Blanky’s due back any minute, so unless you want an interrogation over what you’re planning to do with the collar, you might want to come over to my side and look at books instead, I promise I won’t give you the third degree about anything.”

“Shit,” Edward mutters. He backs out of Blanky’s booth, comes around to the edge of Jopson’s—not behind the table, but as close as he can get without infringing on any of Jopson’s space. Sets the doughnut holes down on the edge of the table, top open so that they can both eat. Watches Jopson reach into the box, pluck out another chocolate doughnut hole. He has lovely hands—long fingers, elegant. Neat nails, kept short. “I’m, uh. Sorry about the panel.”

Jopson’s hand stills just before he pops the doughnut into his mouth, face darkening. “I swear, that…guy had no good intentions whatsoever, and I—”

“No, no,” Edward says. “It’s alright, I—ugh, I know him, it’s…he was fucking with me, I…”

The expression on Jopson’s face doesn’t change at all.

“…it’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Jopson says firmly.

“You have gorgeous hands,” Edward blurts.

Jopson goes pink again. “Now you’re just trying to distract me from being put out,” he chides. Bites off half the doughtnut hole, gestures vaguely with his hand. “I have half a mind to—”

Edward is leaning in before he’s even consciously decided to do anything, snatching the remaining half from between Jopson’s fingers, laving the joints with his tongue, the ball in his piercing clicking against Jopson’s fingernail, and Jopson just—

—goes still.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes.

Edward steps back, dizzy with it, suddenly aware that he doesn’t give a fuck how many other people are in the hall. Given the slightest hint of encouragement, he would pin Jopson to the wall back behind his booth right here, drag his tongue all over Jopson’s exposed skin if that’s how much he likes it, suck each of Jopson’s fingers individually into his mouth, devour him completely—

“Fuck,” Edward mutters. He takes another step back. “Wrong place, wrong time, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Jopson says, voice dazed. “I, er.” Shakes his head a little. “Great tongue, though.”

Edward swallows.

Jopson’s eyes meet his—and then drag, slowly, down the length of Edward’s body.

Edward exhales, conscious of clothing he’d put on after his shower, and desperate for Jopson’s approval. The button-down is black, with a buckle and strap on the shoulder. Dark-wash jeans, with a black thigh harness, tight enough to be flattering. Maybe too tight, considering—but with the way Jopson is watching him, biting at his lower lip, Edward figures that it probably doesn’t matter much. Whatever’s visible, Jopson doesn’t look adverse to it.

Quite the opposite.

Edward takes another deep breath. Exhales. “Later tonight?” No, he should be specific. “Dungeon?”

“Please,” Jopson breathes. His eyes come back up to meet Edward’s again.

They’re blown black.

⛓️

“Seventeen minutes.”

“Hmm?”

“On your hair,” Tozer says. He tips his head back, drains the last of his beer.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Edward asks. He runs his fingers back through his hair one more time, tilting his head to make sure it looks good from all angles.

“Nah. Hickey’s at the booth.”

Edward scowls, sets down his comb on the bathroom counter.

From where he’s sprawled out on his bed, Tozer laughs. “I fucking knew it, you are pissed at him—hand us another beer, would you?”

Edward steps out of the bathroom and reaches into the bar fridge, pulls out a beer and a bottle of water. Tosses the beer over at Tozer, and uncaps the water for himself. It’s not as cold as the beers are, but Edward shouldn’t be drinking tonight either, not when he’s meeting Jopson. He’s nervous enough as it is, needs to make sure that he doesn’t fuck this up in any way, needs to make sure—

“Watersports?”

Edward shakes his head, face heating up. “Dehydrated.” More like nervous as fuck. “You going to the showcase?”

Tozer shrugs, knocks the cap off his beer on the endtable, and takes a deep drink before making a face. “Christ, why is craft synonymous with fucking IPA? You’d think hops were a national fuckin’ commodity or something.” He sets the beer down, swallows like he’s trying to clear the taste out of his throat. “What’s the deal with the showcase? I mean, it’s just rope, innit?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s Sophia Cracroft getting suspended.” Edward pulls out his phone and brings up the program, which he’d only downloaded after Jopson had mentioned it. “Two guys on rigging—uh, Gore and Le Vesconte.” Slides the phone into the leg pocket on his tactical trousers, and then thinks better of it, takes it out and sets it on the desk.

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“They do a lot of work with Fitzjames.”

Tozer takes another swig of his beer. “He that online guy?”

“Yeah,” Edward says. He opens the closet, reaches for a sheer black shirt and carefully tugs it on without messing up his hair.

“Pass. Hey, you see that guy I was talking to earlier today? Short, kinda prissy looking, dresses like a missionary?”

Edward snorts. “He told me to fix myself.”

“That’s the guy!” Tozer exclaims, gesturing with his half-full beer. “Text me if he’s at the showcase.”

“No phones in the dungeon,” Edward says. “You’ll have to lower yourself to showing up.”

“Maybe I will,” Tozer says. “Haven’t heard a list of my sins in a while.”

Edward doesn’t bother responding. There’s no point—Tozer’s tight grin says it all.

⛓️

Edward taps his fingers on his trousers as he enters the dungeon. It’s been twenty-four hours since he was last in here, and it couldn’t be more different now. The lights are on, for one, romantically illuminating a large room, open to the second floor. There’s a wrap-around balcony up there, where people can look down from the lounge and watch the events of the evening. The gear that had been piled in the middle of the room yesterday has now been cleared away, leaving a raised stage in the center of the room, with three ropes on pulleys hanging down from a rig. The showcase will be there, then. 

The rest of the dungeon furniture is spread out at stations throughout the rest of the room—an interior ring of stocks, St. Andrew’s crosses, spanking benches, horses, and chairs that will be visible from the upstairs balconies, and then a similar outer ring with roleplaying furniture mixed in that won’t be clearly visible from above, offering people a little more privacy.

It’s possible he should have gone up to the lounge right away—but there’s still time before the showcase starts, and it won’t hurt Edward any to take a lap around the space, burn off some energy before he goes to find Jopson. There’s a clear path marked out with reflective tape that loops around the dungeon, and it’s here that Edward paces, noting the position of the equipment, the racks for people to hang implements on. He finds what he’s looking for on the opposite side of the dungeon—crash pads laid out on the floor, plenty of empty wall space—and then continues his circle, heading back to the entrance where he’s hoping to find—

—there he is. Jopson is deep in conversation with Lady Silence and two other people. He’s easily recognizable by the lock of hair that he pushes back as he’s talking. He’s not at all recognizable by his outfit, which causes Edward to slow, and then stop, and just…watch.

Gone are the neat clothes he’s been wearing to work the booth. Tonight, Jopson is in uniform—a butler’s uniform, to be precise, sharply tailored and well-fitted to his slender frame. His shoes are perfectly polished, his pants exquisitely creased, and Edward wants to crowd him against a wall, rut up against him and explore underneath Jopson’s tailcoat with his fingers, and then with his teeth and tongue. He’s wearing white gloves, for fuck’s sake, and they are absolutely pristine. Edward wants to smell him, strip him down as far as Jopson wants to go, cover Jopson’s body with his own. He swallows, steps off to the side so that he’s not in the way. He’s not quite close enough to hear the conversation, but he is close enough to watch the way Jopson’s hands move in front of his body as he speaks, realizes after a moment that he’s signing. Realizes a few moments later that the words he’s saying aren’t English—and only then because it’s a different rhythm than Jopson usually speaks in, a little more halting, less fluid.

The dungeon is starting to fill up, in anticipation of the showcase performance—but as far as Edward is concerned, there’s no one in the room but Jopson, and he waits patiently until the conversation that Jopson is having winds to a close, until Lady Silence and her friends step away, and then Edward is moving, approaching Jopson from the side so that he doesn’t startle him.

He pitches his voice low. “Jopson.”

Jopson turns. His eyes widen, and then he smiles brightly, showing his teeth. “Edward.” He reaches out, draws his gloved fingers down Edward’s bare arm. His eyes wander down, focus on Edward’s chest, and then on his belt, before he steps forward, looks Edward in the eyes again. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Likewise,” Edward says, taking another step closer. There must be a slight heel to Jopson’s shoes, because he’s just barely taller than Edward right now, and it’s intoxicating. “May I take that for you?”

“Hmm?”

“Your bag,” Edward says, gesturing to the beaten-up leather satchel that Jopson has on his shoulder, nearly tucked behind his body, and completely at odds with the pristine neatness of the rest of his uniform.

“Oh,” Jopson says, face going pink. “You, uh. Yes, if you like. I’m, uh. Bootblacking tonight.”

Edward pauses in the act of reaching for the strap. “Is it alright if I handle this?”

Jopson nods, takes the bag from his shoulder and hands it over to Edward. It’s well-loved, the leather comfortably worn. Heavier than Edward had anticipated as he puts it onto his shoulder, lets it settle against his body—but worth it, for the small look of relief that goes over Jopson’s face, the way his other hand comes up briefly to his shoulder and rubs.

He’s probably sore, Edward realizes—hauling boxes of books and god knows what else all weekend, carrying this heavy satchel tonight. “I’m good with my hands,” Edward offers, resting his fingertips on Jopson’s elbow, and guiding him over a bit closer to the stage, so that they have a good view of the showcase performance. “If you have time for a massage later.”

Jopson blinks at him, and then smiles. “I didn’t think you dealt in massages,” he teases.

“I’ll deal with anything you want,” Edward says, and it comes out like a threat—but Jopson responds by leaning in closer, and that’s exactly what Edward wants.

“You must be busy tonight,” Jopson says, voice low. “Will you even have time for me?” He glances up at the stage, and then hesitates. “Maybe…not so close to the front?”

“Of course,” Edward says, shifting them backward through the gathering crowd until they’re closer to the fringe of things, back in the relative darkness under the overhang of the balcony up above. “Would you prefer to be up in the lounge?”

“This is fine as long as you can see okay,” Jopson says. “Can you…?”

“I can see fine,” Edward reassures him. Shifts his hand from Jopson’s elbow to his waist, applies light pressure—and then heavier pressure once Jopson leans into him. Glances up briefly, just enough to see that Gore and Le Vesconte are up on the stage now. Le Vesconte is crouched on the floor, checking hanks of rope from the duffel bag, and Gore is swinging one-handed from the seven-inch ring suspended in the centre of the stage, two other rings held loosely in his free hand. “You, uh, have much experience with…”

Jopson shrugs demurely, and Edward immediately feels like an idiot.

“Fuck, you’re Crozier’s assistant, of course you know rope.” Edward swallows, and then the rest of the puzzle clicks into place in his brain, far too late, and he winces. “…you know Sophia Cracroft, don’t you.”

“We’re acquainted,” Jopson says carefully. Then adds, “It’s been a bit since I’ve spoken to her.”

Edward nods, trying to figure out how he’s going to salvage this conversation—and then, he realizes that he doesn’t have to. Jopson has captured Edward’s wrist in his gloved hand, shifted Edward’s hand underneath his tailcoat, to the small of his back. Edward lets his fingers be exactly where Jopson put them—still, still, counts Jopson’s breaths and watches the set of his shoulders, the small smile on Jopson’s face. _Gorgeous_ , Edward thinks, and Jopson sighs happily when Edward applies pressure with his fingers, rubs his thumb along Jopson’s shirt. “What do you figure they’ll use for music?” Edward asks, uses it as an excuse to lean in closer to Jopson, flatten his palm on the small of his back. Fuck, he wants to touch skin, bare skin, his fingertips dancing up the bones of Jopson’s spine.

“Enigma,” Jopson says immediately.

Edward snorts, glances over. “You’re taking the piss.”

Jopson grins. “Am not.”

“You most definitely are.” Edward tilts his hand, keeps his thumb on Jopson’s spine, and lets his fourth and fifth fingers glide under the waistband of Jopson’s trousers. He won’t be able to touch skin, not like this—Jopson’s shirt is properly tailored, long enough that it won’t come untucked when he moves—but Jopson’s breath catches anyway, and that’s more of what Edward wants from him. “So,” Edward says, making his voice even softer, encouraging Jopson to stay leaned in close to him just so that he can hear. “How far in advance would I have needed to book in order to get some of your time tonight?”

Jopson’s eyes flicker down to Edward’s feet, and Edward is suddenly pleased that he wore his good combat boots tonight, not the casual set that he usually wears. “I’m bootblacking until ten,” Jopson says.

“Not work,” Edward says. Walks his fingers carefully on the fabric of Jopson’s shirt, curling it up just slightly in the back without untucking it, enough that he’s finally able to graze bare skin with the tips of his fingers. “Play.”

There are goosebumps on Jopson’s skin.

It’s intoxicating.

“I bootblack until ten,” Jopson repeats.

Edward waits.

Jopson shrugs, the motion a little self-deprecating. “That’s it. I’ll be finished then.” He sets his jaw, looks away. “I imagine we’d need to be more concerned about your availability than mine.”

Edward doesn’t suppress his grin as he leans in, exhales on Jopson’s neck, and then speaks directly into Jopson’s ear. “You imagine incorrectly, Thomas Jopson.” Smooths out the edge of Jopson’s shirt with his fingers, rights his clothing, and carefully withdraws his hand from under Jopson’s waistband.

“Oh?” Jopson asks, and his voice is wary, but his eyes are bright and wide, and Edward could stare at them forever.

Belatedly, Edward remembers to nod. “Not busy,” he says. “At all. So, uh—whatever of my time you want, you can have.”

The corner of Jopson’s mouth twitches. “And if I want all of it?”

“I’ll be at the bootblacking chairs as soon as you’re done,” Edward says, feeling elation rising up in his chest, threatening to choke him. He’s doing it. He’s getting some of Jopson’s time. He’s had Jopson’s bare skin under his fingertips. Even now, his hand is still under Jopson’s tailcoat, resting on the small of his back. Later, he’ll slide his hand down, brush his fingers over the curve of Jopson’s arse. Or he won’t. Maybe he’ll keep them right on the edge, keep Jopson swaying toward him. There’s still the pre-scene negotiation to happen. He has to assume that Jopson is in it for the massage.

It’ll be the best massage of Jopson’s life. Edward is going to find every single knot in his shoulders and work on them until they give way. Jopson is going to be _ruined_ for other massages.

“Come at nine forty-five,” Jopson says. “Don’t wait until ten.”

Edward leans into Jopson. “Will do.” He glances up at the stage just as the music starts.

It’s Enya. _Only Time_ , if Edward remembers the late nineties correctly.

“Bugger,” Jopson says from beside him.

⛓️

“Little! Oi, come drink wi’ us!”

Edward glances over, slows his pace as he takes in the empty glasses on the table. Hickey is pointedly ignoring him, which is fine, because Edward doesn’t want to cause a scene, and pointedly ignoring each other seems like it’s the best option. Tozer, on the other hand…

“Come on,” Tozer says. His face is pink, his eyes not quite focused. He boots one of the empty chairs with his foot, nudging it away from the table. “Got a chair for you ri’ ‘ere.”

“Can’t,” Edward says. He holds up the two drinks in his hand—one club soda, one club soda and cranberry, a lime perched neatly on the edge of each glass. “Heading back downstairs.”

“They ain’t gonna le’ you take booze down. We tried.”

Edward glances around the room, takes a step closer and lowers his voice. “Sol, you’re wasted. You’re gonna want to switch to—”

“He’s drinking with me,” Hickey says sharply.

Edward looks at him.

Hickey smiles, tight and wicked, holds up his own glass. “ _Sol_ is drinking with me, and we’re fine.”

Edward takes a breath, tries to gather his thoughts—and then realizes that he doesn’t give a shit.

His priority for the night is downstairs anyways.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “Have a good night.”

He turns away from the table, and heads for the stairs, nearly bumping into the same prissy-looking guy that was hanging around Tozer earlier at the bottom of the stairs. Edward brushes past him with a murmured apology and then thinks better of it, turns back. “Hey.”

The guy startles, turns. Hesitates, like he’s not entirely certain whether or not Edward was talking to him in the first place.

“He’s been drinking,” Edward says. “Don’t let him treat you like shit.”

The guy blinks at him before setting his jaw. “The Lord—”

“Don’t,” Edward says, heading that conversation off at the pass. “I’m just warning you, that’s all.”

He’s halfway over to the dungeon before he realizes what he really should have done was warn the guy about Hickey—Tozer isn’t belligerent, not yet, just loud and more obnoxious than usual, but Hickey is dangerous sober, let alone drunk. But a warning would imply that Edward is willing to get involved, and he really doesn’t want to.

They’ll just have to work it out on their own.

⛓️

There isn’t anything happening in the dungeon that’s nearly as interesting as the way Jopson’s face had lit up when Edward had stopped by with the drink for him just before his bootblacking shift had started, but Edward makes a circuit anyway. Sophia Cracroft is one of the bigger names at the convention—apparently, Sir John and Lady Jane Franklin are here as well, but Edward doesn’t figure either of them will grace the dungeon with their presence, and he hasn’t seen James Clark Ross yet tonight. Sophia is absolutely surrounded by admirers of all genders, gazing at her with rapt attention as she laughs at something Le Vesconte has just whispered into her ear, her hand on Gore’s shoulder.

(It’d been a good performance, if suspension happened to be a topic of interest. Edward had watched Jopson more than the actual performance—and even Jopson’s eyes were wandering a bit, so Edward didn’t feel like he needed to pay close attention to anything that was happening on stage, and spent his time instead documenting the slow gradual fall of Jopson’s forelock as it slowly slipped out of its style and fell across his face, only for Jopson to push it back behind his ear so the entire process could begin again.)

It’s early in the night, yet, so most of the scenes are only just getting started. No one is quite as naked as what he’s used to seeing back home—probably better to avoid temptation, considering that there’s no penetration of any kind allowed in the actual dungeon. Not a huge change for Edward, who can take or leave the actual sex portion of it while he’s chasing down the endorphins that come from a good scene, but he’s not surprised Tozer has opted for getting drunk upstairs, because Edward’s seen Tozer play enough back home to know without the promise of a blowjob at the end, Tozer’s interest in public play wanes considerably.

It’s the entry-level equipment that’s getting the most use this early in the night—the bondage furniture and benches, as well as about half of the massage tables, but Edward can see the purple lights of a violet wand over in at the back of the dungeon, and Lady Silence is setting up in the corner, where plastic sheets cover the floor, the wall, and the medical gurney. Whatever she’s doing will be worth watching, once it gets going—but considering that it’s just her in the space right now, there’s nothing to see yet, and Edward doesn’t want to risk getting pulled into a conversation when he doesn’t speak the language.

The crash mats over in the far corner of the room are, as of yet, unused. So is the empty patch of wall behind them. Edward sticks his hands in his pockets, casually walks back there just to check things out. There are some extension cords on the floor, and he shifts these out of the way. Crouches down and sweeps his bare hand on the floor, flips his hand over and checks his palm in the light. A bit of dust, but nothing sharp, no bits of gravel or anything. If they happen to be in their bare feet later, they’ll be fine moving from the mats up against the wall—it’s a real wall, not one of those fake hotel room dividers, so Edward will be able to put his back into it, press Jopson up against it, maybe touch and bite and twist, maybe—

A loud scream comes from behind him, followed by a peal of high-pitched laughter, the smack of leather on flesh.

Edward exhales, steps out of the space. Checks his watch. Quarter to nine.

He is absolutely not going to hover around the bootblacking chairs for an entire hour. It’ll be distracting for Jopson. Disrespectful of his space, of his prior commitments. And watching Jopson work with the people who were smart enough to arrange bootblacking with him in advance is just going to make Edward regret that he hadn’t done the same.

(How the fuck hadn’t he known about Jopson? Jopson seems like someone he should have known about, someone that he should have already been introduced to, someone that he could have met on his home turf, someone that he should have known for years, someone that he should have—)

He glances toward the bootblacking chairs. Jopson’s head is bent, and he’s focused on his work.

Edward hopes the person sitting in the chair appreciates him.

Jopson deserves to be appreciated.

⛓️

The booth that Edward ends up in is inevitable, and he thinks that he’d known that, subconsciously, before even coming over to the merch hall. There are a handful of booths closed, including Tozer’s, but enough people are lingering around, either heading to the dungeon or taking a break from it, to justify the remaining booths staying open.

It’s just that there isn’t any other leather gear like this. Tozer has collars at his booth, and they’re fine and everything, and it would be easy enough for Edward to find the lockbox, slip the cash inside, take his pick from Tozer’s stock—but he knows that the gear Tozer is selling isn’t the best in the convention, and Tozer knows that too.

(He doesn’t think _military_ when he looks into Jopson’s soft grey eyes.)

Edward sighs. Pulls his eyes away from the heavy-duty leather collars, and actually picks up one of the pretty ones, one of the teardrop ones that curves into the hollow of the throat rather than staying tight around the neck, accented with elegant silver hardware. The collar is a gorgeous piece of work, and it would be absolutely beautiful on—

“Don’t shoot yourself in the foot on this.”

Edward startles, takes a step back, turns. “I don’t—”

“I said what I said,” Blanky states. He grins crookedly at Edward from where he’s sitting behind his booth. There’s an unlit pipe held between his teeth, and a half-assembled wrist cuff balanced on his knee. “You have the look of a man who is about to shoot himself in the foot on something that’s important to him. Don’t do that.”

“This is a really nice collar,” Edward protests. He looks down at it again. Sure, it’s not the type of thing that’s going to be of any use for heavy play, can’t be yanked at or used to haul someone around, but it’d look really pretty being worn. Jopson has a gorgeous neck, and this style of collar would show it off nicely.

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re a really nice young man, aren’t you,” Blanky says, eyes dancing with amusement.

“I’m—”

“—a man with a decade-long blog archive.” Blanky gestures to Jopson’s booth, which has a neat sign pointing customers toward Blanky for the evening. “He’s been glued to the damn thing all weekend, can’t hardly pry the phone out of his hand. He knows what you’re about.”

Edward takes a deep breath, looks down at the collar in his hand. It’s a beautiful collar. “He would look good in this.”

“You’d tell me he’d look good in anything,” Blanky says. “But I stand by what I said—you shoot yourself in the foot on this, you’ll regret it. I’ll sell you anything you want to buy, but get your head on straight.”

Edward sighs, sets the decorative collar down in front of Blanky. “I’ll take it,” he says.

Blanky says nothing, just leans back in his chair and waits.

Edward huffs out a breath, picks up the heavy-duty collar he’s been eyeing since—since earlier this morning, when he’d come over with the pastries to share with Jopson. It’s heavy, stiff. All black, including the fixtures. Double buckles in the back, lined with short fur on the inside. Edward puts his fist through the middle of the collar, hooks his two fingers into the D-rings on the front, and pulls, hard. The collar resists. It’s solid on his arm, solid where he’s pulling on it. The kind of collar that can resist anything. Sets it down on the counter next to the fancy one. “I’ll get this one too.”

Blanky grins at him. “That’s more like it. If you’ve got a couple minutes to wait, I’ll cut back the extra leather on the straps here for you.”

“Yeah,” Edward says. Puts his hands behind his back, shifts back on his heels, and then forward to his toes.

“You don’t need to stand here,” Blanky says. “I’m not giving you a shovel talk.”

“No?”

“He looks after himself,” Blanky says. “He don’t need me doing it for him.”

⛓️

Edward’s halfway back to the dungeon, the collars wrapped in velvet and boxed separately, before he has an attack of nerves and turns around. Goes all the way up to his hotel room. He’s getting way ahead of himself. The box with the heavy-duty collar goes into the closet. The box with the decorative collar get zipped into one of the interior pockets on his suitcase. He splashes cold water on his face in the bathroom, and goes back to the dungeon without the collars.

They haven’t even played together.

(It’s not the right time. Not yet. He can wait.)

⛓️

Edward is back in the dungeon earlier than he needs to be. It’s much busier, now—the sound of implements hitting skin is constant, echoing up to the ceiling. There’s a suspension scene going on at centre stage, a mummification scene in progress right near the entrance, and electronic music playing loudly enough to provide a heartbeat for the event without drowning out any of the sounds.

Edward inhales. Exhales. _Fuck_ , he loves this—loves the dim lighting and the smell of leather, loves the sounds of people having fun, hitting and getting hit, loves seeing the connections between people as they build scenes together. People moaning, people gasping, people laughing and screaming—this is where he belongs. It’s where Jopson belongs, too. (It’s where they both belong. Together.)

As he was cutting through the lobby on the way back to the convention space, he’d decided to play it cool. Take a walk around the dungeon. Watch some other scenes from behind the tape lines, where he’s not interfering with anything. Maybe see what Lady Silence is doing, now that there are people clustered around the place where she was setting up earlier. But now that he’s here?

He can’t think of anyone but Jopson, and so he goes directly to the chairs.

The bootblacks are nearly finished for the night—there are three of them working, and Jopson is on the far left. He’s bent over the boots he’s working on—the right boot appears to be done, reflecting light beautifully, and the left one is close, because Jopson has his polishing rag out, is carefully buffing the heel as he works his way forward on the boot. The laces he’d removed earlier are folded neatly and set down on a cloth beside his knee.

“Go ahead, if you like.”

Edward glances over. “Goodsir.”

“Edward,” Goodsir responds. He’s clearly working tonight—he’s wearing a vest that denotes him as medical personnel, and has a first aid kit slung over his shoulder, with a radio clipped onto his belt. “They’ve volunteered to stay until ten—you can ask.”

Edward shakes his head. Sure, the two bootblacks to Jopson’s right look to be finished what they’re doing—the one in the middle is relacing a fully polished set of boots, while the bootblack on the end is sitting back on their heels, chatting to the person in the chair—but Edward’s not here for them.

He’s here for Jopson, and he’ll wait as long as he needs to.

“Just waiting for a friend,” he says.

“Ah, Jopson,” Goodsir says. “It’s his first time here as well. I wasn’t aware you knew each other.”

“We didn’t,” Edward says. “Not till this weekend.”

Fuck, Jopson is gorgeous. His tailcoat follows the lines of his back perfectly, nips in at his waist, the tails falling over his cute arse. Edward swallows. “To think, I knew exactly what to expect with this, read it in the Crozier books, and yet…”

Goodsir touches Edward’s shoulder lightly. “Go over there.”

Edward bites his lip, worries at the piercings. Glances at his watch. “It’s ten, I…”

“ _Ask_ ,” Goodsir says. “He won’t begrudge you the question—and we won’t begrudge the extra fundraising either.” The radio on his belt beeps, and he glances down, unhooks it and walks back to the medical booth, and it’s just Edward, watching Jopson finish relacing the boots, and offer an arm to help the person out of the chair.

And then it’s just Jopson, alone at the foot of the chair. He rolls his shoulders, stands up and stretches, with his hands on his lower back—and Edward crossing the aisle, coming to stand directly beside Jopson, his hand covering Jopson’s over the small of his back.

Jopson smells of leather and bootpolish, and slightly, strangely, of cigar smoke. He looks at Edward, smiles. “So sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“You didn’t,” Edward says quickly. “It was—I wanted to see you work.”

Jopson beams at him, then looks down the length of Edward’s body, eyebrows rising. “Ah, well, into the chair with you.”

Edward stares at him. Looks at his watch. “It’s past—”

Jopson kneels without hesitation in front of Edward, places his hands on his thighs. He looks up at Edward, and his eyes are wide, his teeth digging into his lower lip.

Edward’s had men kneel for him before.

It shouldn’t be a big deal.

(It doesn’t usually feel like this, though. Jopson’s eyes are gorgeous, his lips parted, his head right level with Edward’s belt, and he went down so _easy_ , so _gracefully_. He looks so fucking elegant right now, and Edward wants to wreck Jopson’s carefully styled hair, palm the back of Jopson’s skull and pull him in, press Jopson’s nose against the fabric of Edward’s pants, let Jopson breathe there until he’s light-headed with it, haul him up by his hair and—)

Edward tips his head, looks up at the ceiling. Exhales through his nose. “Jopson, I…” _Can’t make you work any longer than you’ve worked, can’t think about you on your knees like this, am about half a second from hauling you to your feet and throwing you over my shoulder and—_

“Please,” Jopson says softly. He captures Edward’s hand in his own.

(Edward didn’t realize until right this moment that Jopson’s hand was bare. Warm. It fits perfectly in his own. His skin is soft.)

“Come sit in my chair a moment,” Jopson says. “I’m in a good headspace right now. Let me bring you with me.” He tugs on Edward’s hand.

Edward swallows, and does as Jopson asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Notes:** gendered slur (“pussy”) used as an insult; Tozer is a jerk | an accidental elbow to the face happens during a demo, causing a bloody nose | subtle kinkshaming continues | brief academic discussion of rough physical play, including consensual punching, slapping, and kicking | feel free to imagine your own graphic questions about anal fisting, using the word “prolapse” as a jump-off point | brief mentions of various BDSM including electrical play, mummification, and play piercing |
> 
> **~~~THE END NOTES~~~**
> 
> **Misc Observational Notes:** Yes, every rigger I’ve ever seen ever has, at some point, swung on their own rig exactly like how Gore was doing just to make sure that the ring is stable, and also because it’s (apparently) fun.
> 
> Blanky’s talk was on how to make your own BDSM implements out of kitchen items, and is great for beginners and people on lockdown. 
> 
> Tozer’s was on the history of military kink. It was educational, but not in the way that Irving thought it would be. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Chapter three, _Consensual_ , goes up next Friday!!
> 
> If you'd like to read more, there's a [behind-the-scenes post on Tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/post/615042510471954432/closer-chapter-two-aware-bonus-features)!
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula) and on [tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/) and [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/heyktula).
> 
> My sincerest thanks to [Autumn](/users/for_autumn_i_am/), who beta-read this for me and also agreed re: everything I said about Tozer's thighs this week. I also owe a great deal to [Deadsy](/users/deadsy/), who copy-edited and also brainstormed a better kink convention with me, and to [Asher_Ephraim](/users/Asher_Ephraim/), who confirmed my words were words and who has promised to call saskatoon berries by their proper name from now on.


	3. Consensual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nah, Jopson will send you the numbers in the morning, I didn’t think to ask him for specifics. Christ, no, he’s not asleep, Francis—boy’s got himself a date. Yup, that’s the one. Dunno, wasn’t planning on reporting back. Indecisive, but seems competent enough. In pretty deep, regardless. No, both of them. Yeah. Hey, you see Esther lately?”
> 
> Or, the one where a particular corner of the dungeon is extensively used.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again!
> 
> Chapter notes are at the end.
> 
> (DMs, or dungeon monitors, are the people who keep an eye on things in the dungeon. I yak about them a bit in the blog post in the bottom notes, if that's your thing!)

Thomas has behaved himself all evening. He chatted when the person in his chair wanted to chat, laughed at their jokes when appropriate. He has been perfectly professional, as he always is. He’s slipped enough into subspace that he’s pleasantly warm, but not far enough for him to really enjoy it. (The bootblacking is, after all, for charity, and not for his own gratification.)

Then he takes Edward’s hand, and all of his resolve flies completely out the window.

Edward has a firm grip, for one. Clean nails, and nice hands. There’s a faint discoloration on his knuckles, and it’s not tattoos, like he thought earlier. Up close like this, it’s definitely faded bruises.

Thomas swallows.

Edward is watching him. The septum ring he was wearing earlier is gone—no, wait. Thomas watches as Edward steps onto the platform, catches the gold glint of the piercing in his nose as he turns his head. Still there, then—but a smaller piece. U-shaped, rather than the ring he was wearing before.

“Thank you for coming,” Thomas says softly. It’s a good thing his manners are ingrained—because, damn it, Edward Little in jeans and a tank looking like a fetish fantasy of Wolverine in the merch hall is one thing. Thomas had expected that tonight, too, because maybe Edward is the kind of guy that always dresses a little bit kinky, but doesn’t escalate it from there. Maybe the clothing he wears in the afternoon is the same clothing he wears in the evening.

But now Edward Little has showed up to Thomas’ bootblack chair in black cargo pants, a mesh shirt that accentuates the gold bars through his nipples and the soft hint of hair on his chest, and a leather belt that basically screams _please look at my dick_.

(It looks _very_ nice.)

Damn it.

Thomas focuses his attention on kneeling, which is not at all distracting now that Edward is here. He gets comfortable at the base of the bootblack chair and glances up, only to realize that from this angle, his view of Edward’s crotch is much, much better.

(Edward is watching him.)

Thomas takes a deep breath. He can feel himself slipping further into subspace.

He looks up into Edward’s warm brown eyes, and lets it happen.

* * *

Edward’s never had his boots blacked before.

Sure, he’s seen it done. He’s read about it in detail, in one of the Croziers. He’s just never _needed_ the information before. He’s always made sure his boots were pristine before he even left his flat, and sent them away to get them cleaned after so they’d be ready to go the next time he wore them out.

He’s realizing now, as he settles into the chair with Jopson kneeling at his feet, that this may have been a mistake. That he may have been missing out. That it might have been useful to know how he’s going to respond to this prior to it actually happening so that he knows how to make it better for Jopson. Right now, this is new territory for him, and he’s slowed by the concern that there’s ways Jopson may expect him to act that Edward won’t know about.

(It’ll be fine. He just has to not fuck it up, focus on what Jopson needs from him—which, right now, is just his boots. His boots, and his undivided attention, and Edward can’t possibly consider giving Jopson anything less.)

Edward shifts in the well-worn chair, tries not to stare at Jopson. Fails. Puts his hands on the armrests, so he’s not tempted to put them anywhere else. Jopson has his bare neck on display, shirt unbuttoned and tie already removed, and God, Edward wants to devour him. There’s no way for Jopson to know that Edward purchased two collars for him, but he’s showing off his neck like he’s trying to make a point of it, like he’s trying to bring out all the possessive bits that Edward is trying to keep tamped down.

(It’s a beautiful neck, and there is a very vulnerable hollow right at the base of his throat that would benefit from Edward’s teeth.)

This is fine. He’s going to appreciate Jopson’s work. He’s going to tip very well. He’s going to keep his feet on the footrests, he’s going to keep his hands on the armrests, he should have adjusted his dick before he sat down, but it’s too late to do that now without being territorial about it. He’s going to think about the massage he’ll give Jopson afterwards, from Jopson’s hands up to his arms and back around to his shoulders and his neck, down his spine to his lower back, all the places Jopson is sore—they have massage tables here, he’ll be able to find one that’s free, he’ll make sure Jopson is looked after and cared for, he’ll make sure—

“Are you ready?” Jopson asks softly.

“Yes,” Edward says, voice low and rough. “Go ahead.”

“They’re very nice boots,” Jopson says.

And, oh, if the hazy quality of his voice is how he sounds when he’s in subspace, Edward wants to keep him there all the time. Jopson puts his hands on Edward’s left boot, and just—drags his fingertips over the leather, feeling out the surface of the boot, one hand curling around back to Edward’s heel, the other gliding up the front of Edward’s calf. Edward can feel the pressure through the leather of the boot, and he _wants_ , badly. But he’s going to behave. He’s going to be good. He’s going to take his cues from Jopson, here, because Jopson is the one who’s been working all evening, Edward has just been wandering around.

“May I shift your boot?” Jopson asks.

Edward nods. Swallows. Elaborates. “Yes,” he says gruffly. “Sorry, not used to this—”

And then Jopson moves, hands curling tightly around Edward’s boot as he pulls Edward’s foot forward, plants Edward’s boot solidly between his legs. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and Edward swears Jopson actually tilts his hips into the boot, just briefly, the pressure so quick that it’s over before Edward is even sure it happened—but Jopson’s face is ever so slightly pink, and there’s a small smile dancing at the edges of his mouth.

“Do you mind?” Jopson asks.

Edward shakes his head, heart thudding in his chest. “No, I don’t—don’t mind at all. Please, go ahead.”

Jopson shifts, slightly, the toe of Edward’s boot pressing between his legs. Edward swallows and closes his eyes, deliberately loosens his grip on the armrests of the chair. It’s fine. More than fine. He’s not going to be crude about it.

(All the reading in the world hasn’t prepared him for this.)

(He won’t die from a hardon.)

When he feels he has control of himself, he opens his eyes again, looks down at Jopson. Jopson’s forelock has fallen forward over his eyes, and he’s steadying Edward’s foot with his thighs while he scrubs the boot clean. Edward’s laces—oh, hell, Edward needs to shut his eyes again for a moment, because Edward’s laces are dangling around Jopson’s neck.

Jopson is wearing Edward’s laces draped around his bare neck, in the place where a collar _isn’t_.

Edward exhales. It’s fine. He’s fine. Jopson’s working on his left boot, so Edward tenses and releases his right thigh, trying to direct blood away from his cock because that’s not what this is, this is a courtesy, this is Jopson doing him a favour, this is Jopson—humming, and leaning over his boots, displaying his bare neck, his legs so warm that Edward swears he can feel the heat of his skin through the leather of his boots—

“I don’t have any medical conditions that will be a concern,” Jopson says softly.

Good. Conversation. Edward can contribute to a conversation. “I’m glad.”

“And I’m not on any medication at present.” Jopson shifts slightly, runs his fingers over the side of Edward’s boot, and then mimics the motion on the other side. Apparently satisfied, he moves Edward’s foot back to the footrest, and shifts Edward’s right boot between his legs. “Outside of T.”

“Right,” Edward says. Fuck, Jopson’s thighs are warm. He wonders if he’d be able to feel Jopson’s pubic bone under his toes if the soles of his boot weren’t so thick. Wants that, badly.

(Maybe he can have it, later.)

“I had dinner before coming down, and I’m well-hydrated. Thank you for the drink, by the way. It was unexpected.”

Edward nods, momentarily distracted by the movement of Jopson’s hands on his boot, the scrape of the brush bristles on the leather. Jopson’s movements are precise and efficient, and Edward wonders how long it had taken him to learn how to do this, who trained him, whether he’s as appreciated as he should be for how damn beautiful he is when he works. There should be poems written about the graceful way Jopson handles the brush, the sharp quickness of his strokes. Wonders whether he’d touch Edward’s cock like this too, quick and efficient, or if he’d drag it out, nice and slow, while Edward presses his knuckles into Jopson’s ribs, carefully seeks out the tender bits and leans into them.

“I don’t mind face-slapping, but I don’t want to carry any marks into tomorrow.” Jopson looks up at Edward. “You can mark up my neck if you like, though, I’ve seen how you look at it when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Edward swallows. He’s staring now. This isn’t—this isn’t idle conversation.

This is scene negotiation.

Specifically, this is the structure that Edward briefly discussed for scene negotiation earlier in the day, during his lecture, the lecture that Jopson was taking diligent notes in—

“You may put whatever you like in my mouth, of course.”

“Of course,” Edward agrees hoarsely.

(There’s no amount of muscle contraction that’s going to move the blood away from his cock now. Jopson’s diligence and the careful way he pays attention, the way he’s paid attention all weekend, is absolutely destroying Edward, and Edward is hungry for it now, hungry for Jopson’s body under his, greedy and ready to devour everything that Jopson will offer up to him, ready to take with his teeth and his tongue and his hands, ready to push Jopson until he’s begging Edward to go just that little bit further, just that little bit further to bring him over the edge, please, Edward, just a little more—)

“I don’t like to be humiliated,” Jopson says, leaning back and examining Edward’s other boot before smiling, and wiping the last of the soap from the boots. He reaches down to his bootblacking bag, brings out a small jar, and starts rubbing the conditioner in it into his hands. “I would prefer to be good for you. Brave.” He looks up at Edward. “You don’t need to be afraid about hurting me, I can take whatever you can give me.”

“You sound very certain of yourself,” Edward manages.

“I sat in your class,” Jopson says. “I’ve read your blog.” He shifts his thighs, adjusts Edward’s boot more firmly between them, and applies his hands to Edward’s boots, rubbing the conditioner into them, massaging Edward’s calves through the leather. “I’ve thought of nothing else since hearing you in the car park on Friday.”

“Hearing me in the…” Hickey. The argument he’d had with Hickey about the fucking butterfly knives. “Oh, hell.”

“Oh, hell, indeed,” Jopson says mildly. “You’re wonderfully gruff.”

Edward swallows. “Experience,” he says. “Yours.”

Jopson looks up at him, hands slowing on the shaft of Edward’s boot. “What about it?”

“Have you done this before,” Edward asks, trying to stay focused even though he’s fixated on the way his boots feel in Jopson’s capable hands. “Back home. Here. Wherever.”

Jopson looks back to Edward’s boot, switches from using the heels of his hands to his fingers as he works the conditioner into the top edge of the boot. “Yes,” he says, easily. “I’m a regular at the clubs back home.”

_I don’t see you_ , Edward wants to say. _How have I lived my entire fucking life without ever having seen you?_

“ _Terror_ and _Erebus_ , mostly,” Jopson continues, and that explains it, because those are both older clubs, and Edward tends to stick to the newer ones. Jopson tilts his head, considers. “Do you know Johnson? I’ve played with him, as well as McCormick, and Abernethy, multiple times.”

Edward blinks. Does he know them? Absolutely not. But he recognizes the names. “Those are...prominent people.”

Jopson goes pink, ducks his head to hide his smile. “Thank you.”

Edward takes a deep breath, tries to swallow back his possessiveness. If Jopson had wanted to be collared by any of those men, he would have been, could have been, they’d have been foolish not to at least offer a collar to him—but he’s not collared and he’s here, he’s here and he’s touching Edward, he’s kneeling at Edward’s feet.

“I’m very much looking forward to playing with you,” Jopson continues. He slides the palms of his hands down and away, and then applies more conditioner to his hands, starts working on the toe of Edward’s boot before glancing up. “And I’m very much enjoying this.”

“I can see that,” Edward says. “Your eyes are gorgeous.”

Jopson smiles, then, and Edward has a sudden urge to kiss him. Instead, he presses the toe of his boot just a little harder between Jopson’s legs, revels in the way Jopson’s breath catches and his hands still, briefly, on the toe of Edward’s boot, before starting their movements again.

(It’s harder to feel Jopson’s hands when they’re here, rather than the shaft of his boot—but it’s easier to see the results, the way the sheen of the black leather changes as Jopson conditions it. Edward will leave these boots out where he can see them, back in London, just so he can think about this throughout the day, how diligent Jopson is, how good he’s being for Edward.)

“It’s so nice to work on oil-tanned leather,” Jopson says, leaning into the toe of Edward’s boot as he drags his fingers along the lower edge of the leather, just above the sole. “I’ve been polishing all evening.”

“You’re welcome,” Edward says. “I just…thought they worked better. With the trousers.”

“Oh, they look wonderful with the trousers,” Jopson says, carefully conditioning the tongue of the boot without touching Edward’s leg, even though it’s right there, and Edward is aching for it. “You’ve been easy on my eyes all weekend.”

Edward runs his hand back through his hair. “Likewise.”

Jopson leans back from the boot, examines his own work. Apparently satisfied, he lifts Edward’s foot—but instead of placing it back on the footrest, he places it on his own thigh, brings Edward’s other boot between his legs.

Fuck, Edward wants to step on him, while simultaneously not wanting to leave the marks of his soles in the fabric of Jopson’s trousers. (Wants, instead, to leave those imprints directly on Jopson’s skin, after he’s stripped the man naked.) He should back the weight off completely, but can’t quite bring himself to do it, not with how pleased Jopson looks with himself as he warms more conditioner between his hands, and starts applying it to the shaft of Edward’s other boot.

It feels just as wonderful on the other side—Jopson’s hands pressing and rubbing at Edward’s boot, massaging his calf through the leather, and the shift of Jopson’s muscles underneath Edward’s other boot. Jopson’s experience is very visible here—he knows exactly where to apply pressure, the best way to touch Edward, and all of that as though Edward’s weight is causing him no issue whatsoever. As though he’s comfortable like this, under Edward’s boot, and Edward lets himself be lulled into it, lets himself enjoy the space and Jopson’s submission, his own growing arousal, and the anticipation of what’s to come.

“Safeword,” Edward says, after some time has passed.

Jopson looks up at him, eyes wide, and says nothing.

“Absolutely not,” Edward growls, letting the threat linger in his voice. “You’ll provide it, or I’ll provide it for you.”

“That’s hardly motivating me in the proper direction,” Jopson points out. He rubs more conditioner between his hands, and then moves to the toe of the boot, working the leather. “Colours will be fine, though.”

“And will you be able to verbalize them?”

“I imagine I’ll do my best,” Jopson says. “And I’ll tap, twice, if my mouth is otherwise occupied?”

“You’ve read the dungeon rules,” Edward says. It comes out like a statement instead of a question.

Jopson sighs, eyes rising from Edward’s boots to between Edward’s legs, and going no further. “More’s the pity,” he says, after a moment. “But yes, I’ve read them.”

“We’ll play by them strictly,” Edward says.

“Yes.”

Edward hesitates, tips his foot slightly, circling the toe of it a little firmer between Jopson’s legs.

Jopson looks up, meets his eyes. He’s still got that gorgeous flush to his face, eyes hazy and wonderful, that piece of hair fallen forward again.

“What will you call me?” Edward asks. It’s not a demand—but it’s very closely approaching one.

“Sir,” Jopson says confidently, smiling as he reaches up, pushes his hair back with his wrist. “Once we start, I’ll call you Sir.”

Edward leans forward in the chair, pressing one foot into Jopson’s thigh and the other between his legs, conscious of how much broader he is than Jopson, the extra weight Edward can leverage against him, how good this will be for both of them. Extends his fingers, taps off his points. “No medical conditions. No medication. I’ve eaten. Drank. You can hit me back if you like, won’t offend me.” He closes his hand. Sets it on his thigh, and backs off the pressure on Jopson’s body, because now isn’t the time. (The time is nearly here, he would leave this chair with his boots unlaced if he didn’t suspect it would offend Jopson.) “I want you to be good. I’ll push you if you’ll let me. You don’t need to play a role. You can be yourself.” Swallows. “I’d like it if you were yourself.”

“Well, then,” Jopson says, looking pleased. “That’s who I’ll be.” He pats the top of Edward’s boot affectionately, leans forward. “I could spend hours on these,” he confides. “I’d clean and condition all the leather gear you have, if you like.”

It’s not even a question. “I’d let you,” Edward says.

Jopson’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, as his breathing slows—and then his eyes open again. “Would you like more, or would you prefer if I laced your boots back up, and you could take me over to the mats?”

“Do it,” Edward says. “Lace me up.” He glances over his shoulder to the corner of the dungeon. Still unoccupied. Looks back at Jopson, considering his face, his voice, the dilation of his pupils. “How far under are you?”

Jopson’s hands still in the act of pulling Edward’s laces from where they’re draped around his neck, his gaze sharpening slightly. “I can pull myself out…”

“No, no,” Edward says quickly. Puts his hand on Jopson’s shoulder, rubs his thumb over the lapel of Jopson’s tailcoat. “Stay in subspace, please.”

Jopson nods as he exhales, expression going back to the dreamy look he was wearing before, the look that Edward wants to keep on his face for the rest of the evening. (The expression that Edward wants to memorize, think about all day tomorrow as he watches Jopson across the merch hall.) “Thank you.” Jopson frees the laces, runs them between his fingers. “I’ll get chatty before I get quiet. When I stop responding verbally when you speak to me, pull me back out, please—speak to me, get me something to drink. Drape my jacket back over my shoulders.” His mouth twists a moment. “I may get…affectionate, but you shouldn’t—”

“I’d like that,” Edward interrupts, deliberately cutting Jopson off. “If it happened.”

“Oh,” Jopson says. He looks up at Edward, eyes soft, lips parted.

Edward leans forward, puts one hand on either side of Jopson’s face, presses his forehead to Jopson’s. “Be yourself with me,” Edward says. “And we’ll have some fun together.” He rubs his thumb along Jopson’s cheekbone, and then goes further, runs his fingers back through Jopson’s hair, pushes Jopson’s forelock back behind his ear like he’s been aching to do all day before leaning back to give Jopson some room to work. “Go on, then—lace me up.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jopson says, looking pleased and satisfied both.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Edward says. He shifts in the chair, letting his knees fall open, and revelling in the way that Jopson’s eyes immediately track upward, hands stilling on the laces just a moment before he pulls himself back to the task at hand and starts lacing Edward’s boots.

Edward takes a deep breath, pulls his eyes away from Jopson, forces himself to focus on the scene. He’ll take Jopson over to the corner of the dungeon. Get his boots off so he doesn’t scuff them, take off Jopson’s shoes. Start undressing him. Maybe get him up against the wall first, before taking him down to the mats. There were—chairs against the wall, earlier, he can use those to put Jopson’s uniform on, keep it off the floor. He lets his eyes wander around the dungeon briefly before he remembers there is one other thing he should do.

Edward hazards a glance at his feet again. One of his boots is laced, and Jopson is deftly working on the second. Edward leans over again, head right next to Jopson’s. “When you’re done—and you’re doing a lovely job here—I want you to pack up your bag while I go give the dungeon monitors a heads-up about what we’re going to do, alright? I won’t spring anything on you, we’ll keep negotiating throughout—but once you and I start, I don’t want to stop to let them know what we’re planning together. Sound good?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jopson murmurs. He ties the second set of laces, deftly tucks the ends under, and then pats the tongue of Edward’s boot. “All finished, Sir.”

Edward looks at his boots first, reaches down and touches the laces, and then strokes the leather. They’re like brand new boots. (He can’t believe he’s never had this done before. He’s so happy his first time was with Jopson.) “I like this. They look sharp.” He leans in a little closer. “Good job,” he says, voice low and right next to Jopson’s ear. “Pack your things. I’m coming back for you.”

Jopson shudders, eyelids drooping shut. “Yes, Sir.”

Edward gives in to temptation, presses his lips to the side of Jopson’s face a moment before shifting, nipping gently at his earlobe. Jopson makes a shocked little sound, and Edward grins. Stands up from the chair, and Jopson’s bare hand is there, uplifted, and waiting to help him down from the platform. Edward squeezes Jopson’s hand before letting go, reaching into his pocket. He flicks through his wallet a moment before dropping a couple of fifties into the donation bin. He forces himself to look away from Jopson, walk over to the medics’ table to check in.

(It’s not just how much better they _look_ now—his boots _feel_ fucking amazing. Something about the way Jopson’s laced them has cut down on the stiffness, given them more flex than what he’s used to. He feels fast, like this, like he could chase down absolutely anybody if he needed to. Like he could catch Jopson any time he wanted to.)

Goodsir looks over as Edward approaches. “Things alright?”

“Yeah,” Edward says. “Wanted to check in. Jopson and I are heading over to the mats. It may get rough. We’re using red, yellow, green for safewords, double-tap if he can’t speak. Just wanted to make sure you and the team knew.”

“Thank you,” Goodsir says. He reaches for the radio clipped to his vest. “I’ll let McDonald know, he’s watching the back half of the dungeon.”

Edward nods in thanks, turns back to the bootblack chairs. Jopson has moved away from them. He’s kneeling off to the side, head down, and his bag carefully placed in front of his knees.

As Edward approaches, Jopson looks up, eyes bright.

“Good,” Edward says, already mourning having left the collars back in his room. “Up you get. Follow me. Can I take your bag?”

Jopson hands his bag over, and falls into place on Edward’s left, a half-step behind him. “Please.”

Edward’s nose is still mostly plugged, but the scent of cigars is evident. “You smoke?”

“No, Sir,” Jopson says. “I bootblack in the cigar room on _Terror_ , though. The bag’s picked it up.”

A vivid image pops to mind—Edward, with an expensive cigar between his lips, a glass of whiskey in his right hand, and Jopson, naked but for leather briefs, between his legs, focused on his boots. “…fuck.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Edward glances over his shoulder. Jopson is grinning. The temptation crosses Edward’s mind to haul Jopson up right now, throw him over his shoulder, and then toss him onto the mat, crawl on top of him—but he’s cognisant of Jopson’s outfit, and his own lack of knowledge in terms of how naked Jopson is willing to get.

They’ll take this slow.

It’s not going to kill him.

⛓️

Jopson’s breath rushes out of him in a whoosh as Edward shoulders his back up against the wall, pins him there, lets his bare feet scrabble on the floor a moment before letting him go. Jopson’s eyes are bright, and he’s grinning as Edward lets him down. “Again,” he demands. “Do it again, Sir.”

Edward grins back—sharp, feral. “You want it.”

“I do,” Jopson says.

“I’ll give it to you,” Edward promises. He steps in close, crowding him, checks his pupils—dilated, eyes half-lidded. Opens Jopson’s tailcoat, and thumps the back of his hand lightly against Jopson’s pec. The shirt underneath is white, well-tailored, sharply ironed. “I like this shirt.”

“Thank you,” Jopson breathes. “I made it myself.”

“...of course you did,” Edward says. He looks at it again, really seeing it this time. “A man of many skills.” He puts his forearm across Jopson’s chest, applies a little pressure. “Big breath in,” he advises. “Hold—yes, like that—and exhale.” He puts his weight into his arm as Jopson exhales, presses him back against the wall, and leans in, close enough to kiss him.

Doesn’t.

Drops his eyes to Jopson’s neck, watches his pulse pound in his throat as he backs the pressure off his arm, brackets Jopson’s body with his. One forearm on either side of Jopson’s head, one bare foot on either side of Jopson’s. “Do you make all your clothing?”

“My fetish gear,” Jopson says. “Yes, Sir.”

“You’re brilliant,” Edward says. He nips at Jopson’s earlobe, breathes heavy on his neck. “I’d like to mark you here. Not yet. Once I’ve earned it.” Licks the place where his neck meets his shoulders, mourns that there’s no sweat there for him to taste, not yet.

Soon, though.

Very soon.

“Can I take my jacket off?”

“Let me help you,” Edward says. Puts his hand in Jopson’s hair, instead, squeezes his fingers into a fist, tugging slightly—and, oh, that’s what he wants, that’s what he’s been thinking about since he first saw Jopson yesterday, because Jopson shudders, whimpers, and actually pulls _away_ from Edward, shifts his head while Edward tightens his grip. Edward slides his other hand down to Jopson’s shoulder, carefully eases the jacket down his arm. “Would you like to step away from the wall, or would you like me to pull you by your hair?”

“Hair,” Jopson says breathlessly.

“Thank you.” Edward pulls, steady, lets Jopson resist until his eyes water, and he takes a step forward, his crotch rubbing against Edward’s thigh. (Fuck, he’s warm.) Eases the jacket off his shoulder, uses Jopson’s hair as a grip, steers Jopson to make him turn to get the jacket the rest of the way off.

Stops.

Stares.

“There’s no back on this shirt,” Edward says stupidly. He has one hand in Jopson’s hair, and he’s holding Jopson’s tailcoat in the other, and he’s staring at Jopson’s bare back, the lean muscle visible on pristine, unmarked skin. He swallows. Bites his tongue so he doesn’t repeat himself. Glances to the side, and then reaches out with his foot, hooks the chair he’d brought over for this purpose, and tugs it close enough that he can drape the tailcoat over it. Looks at Jopson’s bare back. “Up against the wall,” he says gruffly, and Jopson goes, obedient, rests his cheek and chest on the wall and spreads his legs enough for Edward to step in between them.

Edward lets go of Jopson’s hair, presses his lips to the nape of Jopson’s neck as he puts his hands on Jopson’s bare back, scrapes his blunt nails down the flesh hard enough to be felt, but not hard enough to leave a mark.

(Not yet.)

“Colour?”

“Green.”

“And if I hit you on the shoulder here?” Edward thumps Jopson with the back of his hand again, the sharp flesh-on-flesh _smack_ echoing into the rest of the dungeon.

“ _Ah_ —still green.”

“You comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Stay there.” Edward puts his left hand on Jopson’s face to keep him steady. Uses the back of his right on Jopson’s shoulder blade, repeatedly thumping his hand against Jopson’s skin before he stops, studies his work. “Takes a minute before your skin goes red.”

“Don’t bruise easy,” Jopson says. He darts his tongue out, licks at the tips of Edward’s fingers. “Feel free to try, though.”

“Oh, I will.” Edward flexes and releases his hand before thumping Jopson’s shoulder again, hard enough for Jopson to twitch underneath him. The sensation is sharp against the back of Edward’s hand—he’s not used to doing this without gloves, and it’s wonderful—primal and intimate, as though they’re the only two people here even though they’re surrounded by everyone else, even though the air is suffused with other people’s noises, with canes and floggers and whips and the distant hum of electricity.

Edward thumps Jopson again, harder this time, then turns his hand over, runs his fingertips over the reddened patch of Jopson’s skin, feeling the heat of it blossom underneath his hand. “All fucking night you walked around like this.” He drags his nails down Jopson’s back, down to the two-inch section of fabric at the back that holds the shirt together right above his waistband. “I had my hand right _here_ , and I didn’t know your back was bare.”

Jopson shudders. “You could have moved your hand either direction,” he says around Edward’s fingers, his tongue wet and warm. “Up to my bare back. Down my trousers.”

Edward slides his hand under the fabric. “Shirts off, or shirts on?”

“Off,” Jopson says immediately.

Edward takes a step back, removing his hands from Jopson’s body. “Do it.”

He watches Jopson lean back from the wall just enough to unbutton his shirt in front, hand it back as he closes his eyes, presses the side of his face to the wall again. Edward’s hand is shaking as he takes Jopson’s shirt. He turns away for a moment to hang it nicely on the back of the chair before stripping his own shirt off, dropping it on the floor and nudging it under the chair with his boot so it stays out of the way. Takes a deep breath. Turns back.

The dungeon air is cool on his skin, but Jopson's body is warm underneath his hands. Edward turns to the side so his cock is out of the way and shoulders Jopson up against the wall again, keeping the impact of it on his body, not his face. Runs his fingertips along the line of Jopson's back, mapping out ribs and hipbones, the soft place between them, his fingertips lightly tapping over Jopson's kidneys over to his spine, and then all the way up to his neck.

"Gonna work over your upper back," Edward says, voice low and soft. "See if I can get you to bruise up all pretty for me. Want to make you beg for it, beg for me.” He taps Jopson’s shoulder blade with his knuckles, soft and light and repetitive, warming up the skin with light motions before putting more pressure behind it, smacking Jopson hard with the back of his hand. _Tap-tap-tap-tap-thump-tap-tap_ , listens to the wonderful way Jopson’s breath hitches when the backhand lands. God, Edward _wants_ , he wants so badly. He’s aching for his gloves, for the ability to go harder and faster, to work Jopson over more intensely. “Can’t punch you like this,” he says instead, mourning the loss, imagining they’re somewhere else instead. Edward’s bed, maybe, back in his flat in London. He imagines that Jopson is naked, that Edward has wrestled him there and tossed him down. “Concrete wall, that won’t do you any good.” _Tap-tap-tap-tap-thump-thump-thump-tap-tap._ Jopson is gasping underneath him, his fingers scrabbling at Edward’s belt, pulling Edward in close to him. The back of Edward’s hand is getting warm, but Jopson’s skin is warmer, reddening up nicely now, and he scores his fingernails across it, shallow hatchmarks on Jopson’s back that won’t stay longer than a moment or two because Edward had his nails manicured before coming out here and they’re too short to do any damage, but oh, in a different circumstance, a circumstance where Jopson belonged to him and begged for Edward to hurt him more—

“Harder,” Jopson says.

Edward pulls back, peers at Jopson’s face. His hand is pleasantly tingling, his mind starting to fuzz out with endorphins, and he wants Jopson to feel the same—

Jopson is beautiful. His forelock has fallen forward again, and his mouth is partially open as he breathes heavily.

He’s fucking stunning.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Not your hip,” Jopson says. His eyes flicker down Edward’s body again. “Sir. _Please_. Pin me against the wall proper.”

Edward chuckles, low and soft. “That’s a fascinating piece of leverage you’ve just given me.” He pulls away from Jopson’s body, reaches down and tugs Jopson’s fingers from his belt. Puts one hand on either side of Jopson’s lower back, and presses him in against the wall. “Legs together.”

Jopson shifts, closes his stance.

Edward steps forward, and presses his left leg in between Jopson’s, nudging his legs just far enough apart to fit. He can feel the heat coming from Jopson’s body, and it’s absolutely intoxicating. “There,” he growls. “You can have my thigh. You’re being so good.”

Jopson whines, eyes closing.

Edward taps his fingers against Jopson’s cheek. “Still with me?”

Jopson’s eyes flutter open. “Green,” he breathes. “ _So_ green.” He turns his head to the side, sucks two of Edward’s fingers into his mouth. His cheeks hollow in a way that causes the blood to rush out of Edward’s head so fast he’s dizzy with it. Jopson lets go of his fingers with a wet sound, rubs his cheek against the spit-slick digits until his face is shining with his own drool.

“You want it that bad,” Edward manages. God, he wishes he had more _time_. He wants to skip the rest of the conference entirely, book a private hotel room, and just spend the rest of the weekend with Jopson. Fuck it, he doesn’t need to go back to England this week. He can stay in Canada for longer. He can just—keep Jopson here. No. No, Jopson will need to go home, Jopson has a job, Jopson has responsibilities—

“I want _you_ that bad,” Jopson says. “Everything about you—you’re so fucking intense.” He inhales sharply as the back of Edward’s hand lands on his shoulder again, and then keeps talking. “So _smart_ , and it was hell trying to take notes—oh, yes, hit me like that, _please_ —in that— _yes!_ —that panel today, wanted you to—to step on me—once I fixed your boots—”

Edward huffs out a breath, knocks his forehead lightly against Jopson’s, and gives in, presses their mouths together. It’s not a kiss—calling something this primal a kiss is a disservice to every romantic kiss that has ever existed and will ever exist, including the ones Edward wants to give to Jopson as aftercare later this evening, once they’re finished—it’s not a kiss, but an attempt to devour Jopson’s mouth completely, to own him entirely, just for this one brief moment in time. Jopson responds with matching ferocity, and for one beautiful, pinpointed moment, there is nothing in the entire world except for the two of them, just like this.

(Jopson’s neck is at an awkward angle because his chest is still pressed against the wall, and Edward should move him, switch their positions, but the moment is so perfect that he just doesn’t _want_ to—)

When Jopson pulls back, his eyes are blown. “Better hit me again,” he rasps.

Edward blinks. Tries to focus. He’s never this hard when he plays, never has to worry about his own comfort, but his cock is _throbbing_ , and it’s fucking distracting. He doesn’t get like this in the dungeon, is always able to keep it professional, and this is—anything but professional, and he doesn’t even fucking care. He’s heady with it instead, sheer joy accelerated by arousal, and not one goddamn thing to worry about. “Yeah?”

“It’s so good,” Jopson says, his eyes hazy. “You’re so good to me.”

Edward swallows. “You deserve it. You should always be played with like this.”

Jopson raises his eyebrows, bites his lower lip. “So, play with me.”

Edward closes his eyes a moment, takes a deep breath. Pushes his arousal consciously to the back of his mind and flexes his hand, curls it into a fist.

“Fuck, you’ve got nice hands,” Jopson murmurs. “Been watching all weekend.”

Edward opens his eyes. God, he could get used to this. Could get used to Jopson watching him like he’s the only person in the world. Could get used to having Jopson underneath him like this, as often as he wants. Could open up that box back in his hotel room, put a collar around Jopson’s neck, tighten it, let everyone see that Jopson belongs to him, and only to him. “I can start hitting you harder,” he offers. “D’ya want that?”

“Oh, fuck yes,” Jopson breathes. “Sir, please. I want it, Sir.”

Edward swallows, nods. His hands are on Jopson’s lower back, tracing the bare skin there. Dragging his fingertips up Jopson’s sides. Digging his thumbs into Jopson’s shoulders—it’s not the massage he promised earlier, it’s not as good—but Jopson responds wonderfully anyway, sighing and rolling his shoulders into it. “I’ll pretty your back up all proper, and you’ll have my thigh to keep you grounded. I like symmetry, so I’ll have to catch your other shoulder up here—but I can do that faster if you like, I can work on both at the same time if you’re good for it, and once I’ve got your back how I want it, I’ll take you to the mats. If you’re a good boy—and I think you are a _very_ good boy, Jopson—I’ll give you exactly what you need. Yeah?”

Edward watches Jopson's face, waits for the nod, the breathless _yes, please, yes, I want it_ , and _oh_ , Jopson is gorgeous when he's sunk into subspace like this, and it was so goddamn good of him to do this for Edward, it's like he's done all the prep himself just so that Edward can pin him to the wall and— _rut against his arse, strip him naked and drive into him_ —keep smacking him with the back of his hand, loud insistent thumps spread out over both shoulders now, and it would be quicker to do this if Edward used both hands, but it seems much more important for his other hand to be cradling Jopson's face, his fingers between Jopson's cheek and the concrete wall, Jopson's wet lips open against his palm. He can feel Jopson breathing, his breath catching every time Edward's hand comes down on his back with a hard smack.

"You're doing so well," Edward breathes. He shifts his thigh between Jopson's legs, and Jopson moans. "You like that?"

"So much," Jopson says, his mouth wet on Edward’s hand. He keeps trying to suck Edward’s fingers into his mouth, and Edward is inclined to let him, as a reward—but he has a plan in mind for this, and he wants to stick to it.

“Let me finish your back,” Edward says, and Jopson smiles, his mouth just as soft as his eyes.

“Green,” he says, ducking his head and nuzzling against Edward’s hand. “Mark me up.”

⛓️

Jopson's eyes have gone unfocused, his face pink, when Edward finally leans back and looks at his work. Jopson's bare back is red, the skin hot under Edward's fingertips, and there are bruises coming in, purple shadowed arcs in the shape of Edward's knuckles, spread out over Jopson's shoulder-blades like angel wings.

"Did you mark me?" Jopson asks dreamily.

"Oh yes," Edward says gruffly, proud of his work. He runs his palm lightly over the marks, then shakes out his hands, which are tingling and hot-feeling. "You'll feel that in the morning."

Jopson chuckles. "Feeling it now, Sir. So good."

Edward puts his right hand on the small of Jopson's back to steady him against the wall, glances back over his shoulder. Leans in close. "Mats are free," he says. Bites gently on the lobe of Jopson's ear, worries it between his teeth. Jopson smells amazing now that Edward is right in next to him. It’s all he can do not to stop what he’s doing, just stand here and _smell_ Jopson. "You good?"

"Green," Jopson says. "You?"

"Yeah," Edward says, stepping back. He’s riding high on endorphins right now, has no concept of time anymore. He’s conscious of his fists and his cock and the spinning sensation in his head that he’s starting to think belongs to an emotion that he’s not entirely ready to name, not yet, not quite yet. He swallows, gives Jopson another once-over. "Arms around my neck."

Jopson turns, staggers a little as he takes a step away from the wall, giggles when Edward grabs him by the waist to steady him. "Sorry, sorry—ha, I sound like Goodsir, half-Canadian…"

(Edward bites down sharply on his own tongue to prevent himself from saying anything stupid because they could just stay here, it wouldn't be a problem if they just stayed here—)

"Good," Edward says as Jopson loops his arms around Edward's neck. He bends his knees, slides his hands down Jopson's waist and over his sharply-fitted trousers as he tugs upward, encouraging Jopson to hop up, wrap his legs around Edward's waist. "There, I've got you—you alright?"

Jopson makes a faint mewling sound in Edward's ear.

Edward frowns. "Jopson?"

"Yellow," Jopson mutters.

Edward stops moving, stills. Waits. Becomes conscious, suddenly, of his hands on Jopson's trembling thighs, their bare chests touching, with only a sheen of sweat between them. "... do I need to move my hands?"

"Uh, no, Sir, don't—it's just—" Jopson exhales wetly into Edward's neck, mumbles something into Edward's hair.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Mrf." Jopson swallows, the movement of his neck something Edward can actually feel, now that he's carrying Jopson fully. "Don’t want to derail the scene—I just—a minute—your cock is _quite_ distracting."

"My…oh." Edward's face flashes hot. "Fuck, sorry, I—do you want me to shift you?"

"Don't you _dare_." Jopson exhales hard again. "Back home—they've got rooms near _Terror_ , I—"

"They've got rooms here," Edward says, "it's a fucking hotel, I'll carry you—"

"No vacancy," Jopson says. "And I've a roommate in mine. You?"

Edward sighs in exasperation—Tozer is one thing, he'd kick Tozer out without even feeling slightly bad, but he's not subjecting Jopson to Tozer and Hickey both, especially not after the two of them have been drinking. "Roommate. Sorry, I—"

Jopson wriggles in his arms, and Edward lets him put his feet down, fully expecting him to step away—but instead, Jopson just presses in closer, his arms still around Edward's neck, and their bodies fully aligned, touching from shoulders all the way through their thighs. Edward consciously suppresses the desire to grind up against Jopson, feel out his body—god, Edward is obscenely hard—

"We can resume the scene in a minute," Jopson says. "If you want?"

"Yes," Edward breathes. "I'm green, Jopson. Sorry about that, I wasn’t thinking."

Jopson sighs into his neck. "No harm done," he says. Swallows. "I think you'll have to order me away from you, though."

Edward brings up his hand, slow. Brushes his knuckles across Jopson's cheek. "When you're ready."

“I’m not making it worse for you, standing this close?”

(It’s kind of Jopson to describe it that way—they’re not _standing close_ at this point, there is absolutely no distance between them, they’re as close to being one person right now as they can be without one of them inside the other—)

Edward swallows, weighs his options. “S’better,” he admits, voice low, lips brushing against Jopson’s neck. “You’re lucky.”

“Oh?”

Edward leans into Jopson’s upper body, fingertips idly tracing Jopson’s waistband as his mind wanders, starts wondering whether Jopson sews his fetish gear by hand or by machine, whether he would let Edward watch. “Don’t usually play like this. Don’t usually involve my cock.”

“You don’t have to,” Jopson says softly.

Edward drags his fingers up to Jopson’s shoulder, traces over the hot skin where he’s been backhanding Jopson for the past—oh, _lord_ , what is time. It’s not two in the morning yet, because the dungeon hasn’t closed down—but that’s all Edward is aware of, and that’s all he _wants_ to be aware of. “I’m considering it,” he says gruffly. “You deserve it.”

“I’d better be very good for you, then,” Jopson says, tilting his head and nuzzling Edward’s muttonchops. “How do you want to proceed? Do you want to do a takedown?”

Edward scowls, remembering the sharp pain of Tozer’s elbow in his face from earlier today. “Let’s not, rather not fuck it up twice. I’ll wrestle a bit if you want, though?”

Jopson’s breath catches, his words coming out in an uncharacteristic rush. “Yes, yes, that.”

Edward shifts his weight from foot to foot, considering. Turns his face to Jopson’s, and nips at his lower lip. “I’d like to get your arm behind you, flip you onto your back.” He contemplates his options. He wants, badly, to have Jopson resist him, just to make it a challenge—but he’s not confident in being able to ask for it, especially not when Jopson has been doing so well, and is so focused on what Edward wants, even now, even after what Edward’s been asking of him. “…how does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” Jopson breathes. “Can I fight you for it?”

Edward blinks. Swallows. Tries to convince himself that he’s just imagined it, because it’s what he wants—but that’s not how he would have phrased it if he’d imagined Jopson saying it, and the conclusion is that Jopson asked the question himself, unprompted. “Uh.”

“I just want to struggle a little,” Jopson says seriously, and his eyes are bright, and the corners of his mouth are slightly curved, and oh.

Oh, fuck, Edward—well, he—it’s just.

(God, it’s like he’s left his stomach in the sub-basement, and his heart in Jopson’s hands.)

“Yeah,” Edward manages. “I can—I can do that. You, uh, the safewords?”

“Red, yellow, green,” Jopson says. He flashes Edward a quick smile, and then steps deliberately away from him.

It’s the furthest apart they’ve been since they’ve started, and Edward sways forward on impulse, takes a step to close the gap.

Jopson steps away again. “I’m going to run,” he says, still smiling. There’s a beautiful sheen of sweat on his bare chest, and chest hair that Edward absolutely wants to lick.

“No,” Edward counters, hands going idly to his waist, undoing his belt, tugging it out of the belt loops and setting it aside so that the buckle doesn’t get in the way. “No, you aren’t.”

“I absolutely will,” Jopson says, and he takes another step back. And then another.

Edward watches his feet as they get closer to the mat, and then flicks his eyes up to meet Jopson’s. Waits until Jopson is just a half-step away from the mat before he feints. Just as he expected, Jopson turns to run, takes a step, stumbles on the edge of the mat—and then, laughing, he rights himself before he falls over, dodges Edward’s grasp, and nearly scrambles to the other end of the mat before Edward lunges forward, manages to catch Jopson by the ankle, tug Jopson back toward him.

Jopson hits the mat hard, still laughing. Makes an effort to pull his ankle out of Edward’s hand and twist over onto his front at the same time, but it’s not very effective. Neither is Edward—he’s sprawled on his side, right arm outstretched and hand wrapped around Jopson’s ankle, cock hard, chest still feeling like he’s been kicked, even though he hasn’t been. He waits until Jopson gets up on his elbows, and then yanks, hard, pulling Jopson’s leg as Edward rolls over onto his chest, and crawls up Jopson’s body, bracketing Jopson with his legs, and desperately trying not to think about all the different positions Edward wants to fuck him in.

He settles his weight on Jopson’s stomach, knees squeezing Jopson’s ribs, because it seems like the safest position, because he’s got perfect access to Jopson’s flushed face, and his hair, which is in disarray now.

Edward reaches out, smooths Jopson’s hair back out of his eyes. “How’s your back feeling?”

“Sore,” Jopson says delightedly. “Hurt like hell when you yanked me down onto the mat, I, uh. It was wonderful.” His eyes still have that glorious, slightly unfocused look to them.

Edward cradles Jopson’s head in his hand, brushes his thumb against Jopson’s lips. “Breathing okay?”

“You’re not sitting on my chest,” Jopson points out.

Edward taps Jopson’s cheek lightly with his fingers.

“Breathing fine, Sir, thank you for asking.”

“Now you’re just taking the piss,” Edward says. He taps Jopson’s cheek again, a little more firmly this time.

“I would never,” Jopson says, the expression on his face indicating exactly the opposite.

Edward reaches up, cradles the side of Jopson’s face with his left hand, pulls his right hand back. Waits for his heartbeat to calm down. Counts his breaths. Squeezes Jopson’s ribs with his knees, and, oh, that does nothing for his cock except make it harder, because Jopson is pliant and loose underneath him and it would be so easy to just slide his hips back, lay on top of Jopson, chest to chest. He rubs the fingers of his left hand against Jopson’s face. “I think I’ve got a good sense of you now.”

“Then you can guess what I want,” Jopson says softly.

Edward nods.

The first time, he’s gentle with it. Soft. Taps the fingers of his right hand against the sweet spot on Jopson’s cheek, absorbs the slight impact with his other hand, steadying Jopson’s head. The second time, it’s a little harder, Jopson’s cheek going pink under his fingers. The third slap is harder yet, and Jopson’s mouth drops open and he _moans_ , and that’s it for Edward—he slaps Jopson sharply, and then shifts back, bending forward to capture Jopson’s mouth in a kiss, both hands cradling Jopson’s face.

Everything is tongues and mingled spit, breathing into each other’s mouths. Jopson is twitching underneath Edward, and Edward moves by instinct, shifts his right leg between Jopson’s, and Jopson closes his thighs around it, grinds up against Edward’s knee, so hot that Edward can feel the heat of him through his trousers, and he should have taken his own trousers off earlier, shouldn’t have bothered just getting rid of the belt, should have gotten rid of everything, should have—

“Oh fuck,” Edward breathes.

“Please,” Jopson gasps, arching his hips sharply up—and then stilling, suddenly, before deliberately relaxing his body, his hips going back to the mat and his legs loosening from where they were clenched around Edward’s. He exhales, hard, closes his eyes a moment.

Edward nuzzles the side of Jopson’s face, waits.

“I can’t _believe_ we can’t fuck in here,” Jopson mutters grouchily.

“It’s a very nice country otherwise,” Edward offers.

“These dungeon rules are _archaic_.”

Edward opens his mouth to speak, inhales—and, oh, he can smell Jopson now, and Jopson smells fucking _good_. Fuck, he’s half a second from grinding up against Jopson with his hips, encouraging Jopson to lift his body in response so that they can wrestle his trousers off—or, fuck it, Edward will get his own off instead, it doesn’t matter who has their trousers off, just that four layers is entirely too many layers between their bodies—unless Jopson isn’t wearing pants—fuck, what if Jopson isn’t wearing pants, what if it’s just his trousers and then skin, skin and hair, and—and—if he’s wet, Edward might fall apart completely, he wants Jopson so badly, wants to touch and taste and devour—

“Hit me,” Jopson begs. His eyes are scrunched shut, and his face is red. “Sir, please—please, just— _Edward_ —”

Edward breathes in, ragged, sits on Jopson’s stomach. Shifts. Squeezes Jopson’s body with his knees, releases. It’s no use. “Keep your eyes shut,” he says gruffly, looks up at the ceiling as he reaches inside his trousers to adjust his cock, running sums in his head, anything to keep himself distracted from how good it feels to finally touch his cock, and how much worse it feels that it’s his hand instead of Jopson’s—puts his hand back on his knee, and looks back down to see Jopson quickly squeezing his eyes back shut again. “Sorry,” Edward mutters. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

“It wasn’t,” Jopson agrees. He opens his eyes. His pupils are dilated. “You could do it again and let me watch.”

Edward exhales. “Really shouldn’t.”

“Pity.” Jopson looks anyway, eyes slowly tracing over the crotch of Edward’s trousers.

(Fuck, he should have taken them off.)

Edward flexes his hand, curls it into a fist. Looks down at Jopson’s chest, and stills. “Do you, uh. May I?”

Jopson bites his lip, nods.

It’s what they’re both after, and it’s made that much more desirable when Jopson is looking at Edward like that, when his hips keep twitching like it’ll encourage Edward to shift backward on his body—which it is, but he won’t, he’ll stay right here, his knees snugly around the softest spots of Jopson’s stomach. That’s what they’re here for. Rough physical play. They’re here so that Edward can bruise up Jopson’s chest just like he bruised up his back, it’s just—oh, Edward wants everything at once. He wants to bite and pinch and grope, leave the marks of his teeth in Jopson’s skin, make him gasp and whine—but he also wants to sit right here, keep Jopson pinned to the mat and drag his index finger slow over the length of Jopson’s collarbone, lick Jopson’s sweat from the tip of his finger.

Jopson whines, breath hitching, and closed fist smacking against the mat as he tries to shift under Edward, with no success. “Green,” he says. “Sir, would you—green, please, only would you— _fuck_.”

“Won’t fuck you tonight,” Edward murmurs. “Can’t fuck you tonight.” He flattens both palms over Jopson’s nipples, leaning in and slowly pressing the air out of Jopson’s lungs before pulling back. He rubs his thumbs over Jopson’s nipples speculatively. “These sensitive?”

“Not really,” Jopson says. “Do what you like. Gotta mean it, though.” He looks up at Edward through half-lidded eyes. “Your teeth,” he offers. “Bet I’d feel that.”

Edward leans down, bites down on Jopson’s right nipple, digs his fingernails into the left. Fuck, Jopson tastes good—sweat, and faintly like the soap he uses, which isn’t a scent Edward recognizes, and, oh, Jopson bucks underneath him, moans, his exhale a whispered litany of _yes yes yes_. Edward lets up with his fingers first, switches to rubbing his thumb over Jopson’s nipple as he increases pressure with his teeth until Jopson’s breath catches, and then he lets go, immediately pressing his palm over it, rubbing it hard to encourage the blood back. “Good?”

“Good, good, I—oh, god, Edward, I can see your teeth in my skin, I can—oh, hell, I—”

“That’s right,” Edward says. “You’re so good for me.” He curls his hand into a fist, whacks Jopson’s pec, right under his collarbone, squeezes his knees tight to prevent Jopson from bucking him off when he gasps, curses. Thumps his hand down again, Jopson’s skin already red and hot. “Too hard?”

“Perfect,” Jopson says, shifting underneath Edward. “Do it again.”

Edward glances down. “Whole chest fair game?”

Jopson gazes back at him vaguely. “Huh?”

Edward taps his cheek lightly with his fingers. “Your chest. Do I need to watch out for the scars?”

“Oh,” Jopson says, looking vaguely down at his own chest. “No, but they’re—numb, still, a bit.”

Edward nods. “I’ll be careful,” he promises. “Deep breath for me.”

He watches Jopson take it. Waits for the exhale, and then smacks the back of both hands down on Jopson’s pecs right at the end, revels in the adrenaline rush when Jopson thrashes underneath him, crying out and grabbing for Edward’s thighs.

“It’s good?”

Jopson nods. “Again,” he whispers.

Edward grins at him, feral.

Obliges.

⛓️

Jopson arches, hard, underneath him, nearly throwing Edward off. Edward leans into his left hand, pinning Jopson’s wrists more firmly to the mat, and uses his right to tug at Jopson’s hair, pinning that down to the mat too.

“Stay,” he growls, rocking his hips.

He’s too close. They’re both too close. Jopson’s writhing and the way Edward’s had to shift to keep him where he wants him—fuck, Jopson’s nose is practically shoved into Edward’s cock right now, and it’s probably good that Edward hadn’t taken off his trousers, but—fucking hell, Edward is fucking close. He lets go of Jopson’s hair, drags his fingers through the grateful tears and the snot on Jopson’s face, wiping them away. Leans in for another kiss, partly because he wants to, and partly because he needs to get himself back on track, get his dick back away from Jopson’s gorgeous mouth so that he can fucking _think_.

Jopson tastes like salt-water now, kisses Edward back eagerly, panting into his mouth. Edward lets go of his wrists, and Jopson pushes himself up, Edward sliding down into his lap, and everything is—teeth, and tongue, and exchanged breath, and Edward is light-headed from the lack of oxygen, from the way Jopson is murmuring his name, from the keening sound Jopson makes when Edward’s weight settles into his lap entirely.

“Almost there,” Edward promises, not even entirely sure what he’s promising, his fingers dancing up Jopson’s sides.

“I know, I know,” Jopson gasps. “I need—Edward—”

“A little bit more,” Edward begs. “I promise, I promise—” He curls his hand into a fist, taps the side of it against Jopson’s ribs, slowly increasing the intensity until Jopson is gasping for breath every time Edward makes contact. He’s got his other hand wrapped around the back of Jopson’s head, holding him close, cradling Jopson’s head in his shoulder so that Jopson doesn’t feel over-exposed. Anything outside of the two of them has long-since ceased to exist. “You’re good?”

“Knee,” Jopson says. He turns his face so that he’s speaking against Edward’s neck, his breathing quick and rough. “Sir. Please. Green, I—”

“Can you take five more?” Edward’s words stumble over each other on their rush out of his mouth, but it’s important, he wants to ask, he needs to know. “Both hands, one on either side—get your arms around my neck, hold yourself there—five more, increasing—intensity, give you my knee at the end—”

“Please, yes, Sir—”

“Count them,” Edward demands. He rises up onto his knees on the mat, waits for Jopson to brace himself, raising his arms up, baring his ribs so that he can receive Edward’s affection.

Jopson nods. Stares up at Edward, his eyes wet and open and vulnerable. Licks his lips.

Edward puts his hands behind his head, tugs at his own hair a moment to ground himself, and then curls his hands into fists where Jopson can’t see them, brings them down and around, quick and sudden, thumping the sides of his hands into Jopson’s ribs.

Jopson gasps, eyelids fluttering, mouth dropping open. “One,” he says, voice throaty.

Edward drags his fingers up Jopson’s spine, presses his fingertips into the bruises on Jopson’s shoulder blades that he knows are there. Both at once is a lot, he knows—the sound Jopson made was like the wind had been kicked out of him, but he’s recovering nicely, his breathing steadily out as quickly as Edward could hope, considering how hard Edward had hit him. “Green?”

“Green,” Jopson promises, face flushed.

“I’ll go faster for the rest,” Edward promises. “Keep counting, and you’ll get your reward on five.”

Jopson nods. Takes a deep breath. “Ready.”

Edward breathes in concert with him, making sure they’re synchronized. This time, when he brings his hands up, he curls his fingers into fists above his head, where Jopson can see them. “Ready,” Edward murmurs, “set—”

Swings them down and around, lands solidly in Jopson’s ribs, immediately uses the momentum to pull back, and swing in again, going a little harder this time—

“One—”

He’s restarting the count. Edward checks Jopson’s face as he’s bringing his hands back up, and _oh,_ Jopson smiles at him, quick and breathless.

“Two—”

He’d promised his knee on five—

“Three—”

—and if Jopson wants to restart the count—

“F-four—”

—fine. Edward moves quickly, shifts his weight to his left knee entirely, moves his right knee and his hands in tandem, shoving his knee in gracelessly between Jopson’s legs, grinding it in there as his fists land right on Jopson’s sides, and he expects Jopson to scream but it’ll be okay because Edward is going to comfort him, gather him in close and hold him, Edward is going to—

Jopson doesn’t scream. His entire body goes stiff, breath sucking quick into his lungs and his fingernails digging sharply into Edward’s bare back, legs clenching around Edward’s thigh, and it’s like time just fucking _stops_ for one ecstatic moment until Jopson goes limp, his hands patting randomly on Edward’s back, over the scratches he’s just left in Edward’s skin that Edward is going to treasure forever, because _he_ did that to Jopson and he’s going to wear these scratches with fucking _pride_.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jopson says, after a long moment of silence. “ _Oh_ , I… _Ned_ , holy fuck.” He takes another rasping breath, shudders. “ _Fuck_.”

_Ned_ , Edward thinks, and he feels hot all over, from his hair all the way through his aching cock down to his toes.

Jopson gave him a _nickname_.

Edward buries his face in Jopson’s hair, pets awkwardly at the back of his neck. Jopson’s hair is damp, the back of his neck sweaty. He’s clinging to Edward, twitching and gasping as he gets his breath back.

“There, there,” Edward says. “You did so good for me, I’m so proud of you, pet.”

“Oh god,” Jopson says weakly. “Five, sir. Holy _fuck_.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Edward murmurs. “If we were in England, I’d fuck you proper.”

“If we were in England,” Jopson says, pressing his lips to Edward’s neck, “I’d let you.”

⛓️

Edward stands and stretches, scratches his nose with the back of his hand. The mats are disinfected, straightened up—he and Jopson had managed to shove one of them nearly against the wall—but he’s still riding high on adrenaline and arousal, and needs a moment to pull himself together. He glances over to where Jopson is sitting on the floor, his jacket around his shoulders, eyes shut, and head tipped back, resting against the wall. His face is still flushed, and there’s a half-smile on his face.

Edward swallows. God, he hopes Jopson will let Edward visit in London, because Edward is feeling an awful lot like he might be a little bit gone for him. He runs his hand back through his hair. His hands are trembling. He rubs his palms on the thighs of his trousers. Picks his belt back up off the floor and puts it back on, snags his shirt from underneath the chair and pulls that on too. Takes another look to make sure that he’s sorted the play area out so that the next set of people can use it, and then goes back to Jopson, crouches down next to him.

Jopson opens his eyes, turns his head. His eyes are a little unfocused, but the smile on his face doesn’t change. “Hi,” he says, voice low.

“Hi,” Edward says. Fuck, the adrenaline is singing in his veins. He could do anything right now. Absolutely anything that Jopson asked of him. Anything at all. He hopes Jopson wants something. Edward’s gonna give it to him. “How’s things?”

Jopson blinks, slow and easy. “Quite lovely, thank you. Everything cleaned up?”

Edward nods. “I got it all looked after. Wanna sit here for a minute, or would you like to…”

Jopson puts his hand on Edward’s arm, strokes his thumb along Edward’s tattoo, and Edward’s words dry up in his throat completely.

“I think I’d like to go for a bit of a walk,” Jopson says. His hand is still on Edward’s arm. “Would you like to come for a walk with me, Ned?”

Edward nods. “Anywhere,” he says roughly. “Lead the way.”

⛓️

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at,” Edward says. They’re down in the lower level of the hotel, at the bottom of an out-of-the-way staircase. The dungeon must be above them, because he can hear the vague pulse of the bass coming from the ceiling, up above the exposed pipes. There’s nothing down here—a couple stacks of extra chairs, a folded-up table stashed away on a dolly. “Did we take a wrong turn?”

“Nah,” Jopson says, easily. He sounds almost—amused, and Edward turns back to look at him, only to see him shrugging off his tailcoat, carefully folding it, and setting it aside. He unbuttons his cuffs, rolls them back. Tugs the thighs of his trousers up, and then kneels on the concrete flooring, right at Edward’s feet.

It’s the second time tonight, only this time, Jopson’s hair is still a mess from their scene, the colour in his face is still high, his shirt is unbuttoned enough that Edward can see hints of the shadowed bruises he’d left on Jopson’s chest.

“…we’re not lost, are we,” Edward says, realizing dawning.

“Not at all,” Jopson says. He smiles, deliberately drops his eyes to Edward’s belt, except—it’s not his belt.

It’s his cock.

Jopson is eyeing up his cock, and it’s not the first time this weekend. Hell, it’s not even the first time tonight.

Edward exhales. Runs his hand back through his hair again, leans back against the wall. “Huh.”

Jopson looks up at him, eyes wide, pupils still dilated. His voice is soft, lyrical. Pleased. “I’d like to blow you, Edward Little.”

Edward feels vaguely like he should demur, out of manners, or, uh. Concern for Jopson’s knees, or—or his, um. Aftercare. Or. Or something.

He just doesn’t want to.

“Oh, fuck,” he says weakly. The concrete wall is cold against Edward’s back, and he tips his head against it, stares at the exposed pipes running along the ceiling. Breathes.

“It’s the least I could do,” Jopson continues, “after you made me come so nicely.”

Edward blinks, tries to process.

It’s just…he hadn’t touched Jopson at all, except for above the belt, and even that was mostly with his fists—actually, it was all with his fists, his fists and—oh, and his knee between Jopson’s legs, just that once—

_Oh, Ned, holy fuck._

Edward swallows, looks down at Jopson. He’d—holy fuck, with his fists and his knee, he’d—focus, he needs to focus. Say something smart. “I, uh…you can _do_ that?”

Fuck, that wasn’t it.

Jopson doesn’t seem to mind, though. Chuckles, sits back on his heels. “I’m a masochist,” he says, fixing his hair. “And you were _very_ good, Edward.” He reaches out, adjusts Edward’s trouser leg. Leans in, brushes his lips on Edward’s knee.

(He can feel Jopson’s breath through the fabric.)

Jopson pulls back a little, pats Edward’s knee affectionately before wincing. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Still in subspace.”

“I don’t mind,” Edward says. “Neither does my knee.” He reaches down, combs his fingers through Jopson’s hair, guides Jopson’s head back against his legs. Fuck, this is good. It’s not the ideal location—an abandoned stairwell is much worse than, say, Edward’s hotel room. Or his flat. Or Jopson’s flat. But it doesn’t really matter, because he’s with Jopson, and Jopson is sitting at his feet. Edward feels powerful like this. Protective.

(Possessive.)

He scratches at the back of Jopson’s neck, and Jopson makes a pleased sound. Edward could get used to this.

“I won’t ask a third time,” Jopson says, nuzzling at Edward’s leg. “But I would really like to suck you off. It’s, uh. It’s not just a subspace thing.” He looks up at Edward, mouth twisting. “I started thinking about it in the bathroom, actually. When you were, uh. All bloody.” His face is pink. “I know the demo wasn’t supposed to go like that, I could tell by the look on your face when he hit you, but, uh. I was, well.”

“Can I see you in London?” Edward blurts. He grimaces, looks at the ceiling, rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck, sorry, I. _Fuck_.” His voice echoes off the ceiling, disappears among the pipes. “I am so sorry. You shouldn’t answer that question. You don’t have to answer that question. It was inappropriate of me…” He trails off, looks down at Jopson, who is…staring at him. “Jopson?”

“ _Obviously_ you can,” Jopson says. “Ned, I—”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Edward breathes, and he crouches down, cradles Jopson’s face in his hands and kisses him passionately. “Thank fuck, thank fuck—Jopson, I—”

“Pet,” Jopson is murmuring between kisses, “call me that, call me that all the time—here, London, of course I’ll come see you—did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Wasn’t sure,” Edward says, although he’s starting to feel just a little bit stupid about that now. He presses his tongue into Jopson’s mouth, and Jopson shudders in pleasure, whines underneath him.

“Let me,” he’s saying into Edward’s mouth. “Please, I want to, so badly—”

“Yeah,” Edward says, nodding. “Yeah, I—fuck, it was so smart of you to find this place.”

“It’s as private as we’re gonna get,” Jopson says. “Come on, stand up for me please, Sir.”

“Right,” Edward says. He stands. Puts his hand on his belt, starts to undo it.

Jopson slaps his hand away, the sharp sound of it echoing in the empty stairwell.

They stare at each other a moment in silence.

(The back of his hand _stings_.)

Edward raises his eyebrows, deliberately puts his hands flat on the wall behind him. He’s suddenly very, very hard. “I’m not gonna stop you if you want to do it yourself,” he says, voice rough. “That’s hot as fuck.”

Jopson exhales. Reaches up to Edward’s belt again, slowly undoes it. “Don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me,” he says. “I’m normally very—”

“Hey,” Edward says. He ruffles Jopson’s elegant hair, then smooths it back into place. “Said I wanted you to be yourself, remember? If you wanna get bossy about my belt buckle, I don’t care.”

Jopson takes another deep breath. Eases the loose end of Edward’s belt through the first couple loops, and then carefully tugs the belt off completely. “I’ve been—there have been—I’m.” He’s easing down Edward’s zipper and opening Edward’s trousers. Stops. Stifles a giggle.

Oh, _fuck_. Edward forgot he was wearing the zebra-striped boxers. He looks up at the ceiling, mutters an apology. Goddamn it, he should have just worn something nice. Something—

Jopson is nuzzling his face against Edward’s underwear, and Edward can’t think of anything else. Jopson’s breath is hot through the fabric, right onto Edward’s cock. Fuck, he’s dragging his tongue on the fabric. If Edward looks down right now, he’s going to be overcome with it, so he’s just—not going to look down. He’ll just let Jopson take this at his own pace, he’ll just—stare at the ceiling for a minute here, get control of himself. He’s not going to grind against Jopson’s face. He’s not going to grab him by the hair. The scene is finished, the scene is over, he’s just going to—he’s just going to let Jopson take the lead on this.

(They never discussed face-fucking, and Jopson is too far into subspace for Edward to bring it up now.)

The air in the stairwell is cool, and Edward shudders as Jopson carefully pulls his underwear out and down, his bare cock exposed to Jopson’s eyes. He waits for Jopson to make the next move. Wonders if it’ll be his mouth or just his tongue. Maybe his fingers. Maybe—

“ _Oh_ ,” Jopson says. “Whoa.”

Edward looks down. Cringes.

(It’s not just the underwear he’s forgotten.)

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” Edward says. He swallows. “I—uh. Sorry, this is stupid, I forgot they were there—I generally do, you know, warn people in advance, this isn’t how I normally—I, uh.”

Jopson reaches out, brushes his finger against the gold ring in the head of Edward’s cock. “Oh, it’s _warm_ ,” he says. He drags his finger down the underside of the shaft, fingertip bumping over the ladder of barbells running down the length. “They’re all so warm.”

Edward purses his lips, exhales. Bites down on his own tongue, just to centre himself.

“I’m going for it,” Jopson says, voice quiet. “What a perfect cock.”

And then, before Edward has even had a moment to process that statement, Jopson leans forward, and drags his tongue up the length of Edward’s erection.

Jopson’s not shy about it at all—he’s right in there, his hands on Edward’s hips, and his tongue flat on Edward’s cock, his eyes shut as he feels out every single one of the piercings. His tongue is quick and dexterous, the point of it dragging the length of each barbell, from ball to ball. His fingers are clutching at Edward’s underwear, his breath is hot on Edward’s cock, and Edward can hardly bear it. He exhales, hard, smacks his palm against the concrete wall behind him, resists the urge to thrust forward, rub his cock on Jopson’s face. “Fuck, that’s good,” he mutters. “You’re doing so good, pet.”

Jopson looks up at him, and oh, god, his eyes are an entirely different colour in this light—he’d thought grey before, or maybe blue, but they look almost green now. Edward reaches out, cradles Jopson’s face in his hand. His hand is shaking. He watches, awestruck, as Jopson drags his tongue up the ladder of piercings again, right up the centre of it, maintaining eye contact. When he reaches the last rung, he smiles impishly, sticks the point of his tongue through the ring in Edward’s PA, curls it back and tugs at it playfully.

Edward smacks the wall again, revelling in the sting of it on his open palm, distracting him from the ache in his balls, the heavy-aroused-hard feeling of his cock. Bites his lip, chews on one of the rings. Watches as Jopson slides his hands inward, his fingers flicking at the barbell closest to the base of his cock. Shudders as Jopson leans forward to kiss the tip of his cock, right where the ring goes in. Then he pulls back, tilts his head, stretches his jaw. Edward is speechless, his heart pounding hard in his ears, and his cock so hard it hurts, and the agony is _perfect_.

And then there’s no agony at all, because Jopson has shuffled forward, started working Edward’s cock past his lips. Edward breathes through it, curling his fingers into Jopson’s hair, but careful not to tug or pull at it. Fuck, it’s good—Jopson’s mouth is hot and wet, and he’s still playing with the piercings on the base of Edward’s cock with one hand, has shifted the other to Edward’s balls, and Edward widens his stance a little to give Jopson more room to work. Breathes. Fuck. _Fuck_ , he’s good, he’s so goddamn good. It’s overwhelming, to have the full force of Jopson’s submission right there, between Edward’s legs. He’s not flinching at the piercings or the girth or the length or anything about Edward’s cock, and Edward will give him everything.

Jopson is breathing through his nose, now, breathing around Edward’s cock, and fuck, Edward doesn’t know what he wants more—to stay like this, his hands against the wall, or to rut into Jopson’s mouth, push him right to the edge again even though he’s already done that once tonight, and that should be it, he should be sated, that should be enough—but Jopson makes him greedy, and Edward wants to devour him all over again.

Jopson shifts his hand further back between Edward’s legs, stops just shy of his hole, fingertips pressing hard against the metal there, and Edward inhales, ragged and sudden, stars exploding behind his eyes.

“Fucking— _fuck_ , you’ve—that’s—” He groans wordlessly. Language is beyond him. Propriety is beyond him. Every thought he’s ever had about swallowing back his own pleasure in the name of making his play partner happy has completely dissolved because Jopson has taken him apart completely, deftly deconstructed him into his fundamental parts, and is taking those apart too, Edward’s entire body fading until he feels nothing but pleasure.

Jopson pulls off his cock, looks up at him, grinning. There’s drool on his chin, and his lips are wet. He tugs gently at the heavy ring that’s piercing through Edward’s perineum. “You’ll have to let me see that one later,” he rasps. “Never seen one before.”

“Yeah,” Edward says. “Sure.”

Jopson wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, completely unselfconsciously, and then leans back in, takes Edward’s cock back in his mouth. He’s absolutely relentless, going in fast and hard, his hands busy on Edward’s piercings, his tongue busy on—oh, oh, _fucking_ hell, his cock is shoving against the back of Jopson’s throat already, and this is good, this is perfect, this is fucking great, Jopson is using his hand to stimulate the part that he can’t—

—and then something shifts and suddenly there _is_ no part of his cock that Jopson can’t fit in his mouth, because Edward’s cock is down his throat, and Jopson’s nose is rubbing up against Edward’s pubic hair, and Edward can hardly breathe for how fucking _good_ he is, he’s pretty sure he’s babbling—he’s probably louder than he should be considering that they’re in the stairwell, he’s probably— _fuck_ , holy _shit_ , it’s just—he’s just—he’s never—not without his partner gagging, and there were always other things they could do, there were always— _fuck_ —this was never a priority but it’s _everything_ right now, his plan to see Jopson back to his room is so far in the past that it’s nothing but a vague concept, he’s so fucking lucky Jopson is smarter than him, because this blowjob is the best idea anybody has ever had, and Edward could die happy, right here, right now, they can just bury him in Canada, that’s totally fine with him.

Jopson swallows, exhales heavy through his nose, and doesn’t pull back.

“You’re fucking—so good,” Edward says. He gives into temptation, slides his hand from the side of Jopson’s face down to his throat, stroking it gently. “ _Pet_ , I just—I want—”

Jopson moans around his dick, his throat convulsing, and Edward shudders, his hips twitching.

“Fucking close,” he manages. “I—”

Then Jopson takes his free hand, the one that isn’t playing with the guiche ring, and puts it over Edward’s hand, presses Edward’s fingers into the soft spot just under his jaw, the spot where Edward can feel his own cock down Jopson’s throat, the spot where Edward can feel—oh, _fuck_ , no, that’s not just his cock, he can feel his own piercings through Jopson’s throat, the hard balls of the barbells firm under his fingertips, and Edward’s balls tighten.

“Gonna come,” he slurs, dizzy with it—with wanting Jopson, with Jopson’s throat tight on his cock, with the way Jopson is squeezing his hand, with the satisfied noise that Jopson makes, and with his own orgasm, a full-body thing that radiates from his cock and balls and the ring between his legs, jolting sharp up his spine and blurring out his vision, the rush of sensation as Jopson pulls back, gasps a breath of air into his mouth and then seals his lips tight around Edward’s cock, his fingers covering the rest of the shaft, thumb rubbing at the piercings on the bottom, and everything is just—it’s Jopson’s _eyes_ , the gorgeous colour of his eyes as he stares up at Edward and just—takes it.

Takes _everything_.

⛓️

(It feels like Jopson has plunged his hands into Edward’s guts, rearranged all his organs to his liking, left his fingerprints on Edward’s heart, and what does it even look like to move forward from this? He’ll never recover, and he’ll never want to. Jopson has _changed_ him.)

⛓️

Edward’s eyes flutter open when Jopson taps him twice on the hip, his eyes a question, and his lips still wrapped around Edward’s cock.

“Yeah,” Edward says, voice shaking. “I’m, uh. I’m done. Thank you.”

The corners of Jopson’s mouth lift, and he pulls back, mouth still closed.

“Go ahead and spit,” Edward murmurs. Widens his legs to make space on the concrete between his legs, but Jopson’s eyes just sparkle, and Edward watches his tongue shift in his mouth, almost like he’s tasting it, tasting _Edward._

Then he swallows, slow and languorous.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Edward says, kneeling and capturing Jopson’s face between his hands, kissing him deep, chasing the taste of himself in Jopson’s mouth. There’s spit everywhere.

(Jopson’s tongue is eager, and his mouth tastes like salt.)

When he pulls back, Jopson sways toward him, plants a sloppy kiss on Edward’s cheek, collapses into Edward’s shoulder. Edward tugs him closer, holds him. Inhales the scent of him, sweat and spit. Rubs his throat, trying to soothe it with his thumb.

“You’re so good,” he murmurs. “You’re so good to me.”

Jopson sighs happily. Reaches between them, fingers brushing lightly over Edward’s softening cock for a moment before he looks down between them. “Huh. The bars are much closer together now.”

Edward chuckles, exhausted. “If I don’t wear tight underwear and I move too fast, you can hear them click against each other.”

“Wow.” Jopson nuzzles the side of Edward’s face. “I’ll listen close.”

“Mmm,” Edward says. God, he feels wasted—the adrenaline he’s been carrying around all day has finally dissipated completely, and he’s satiated and exhausted in the wake of his orgasm, reality starting to waver at the edges. “Can I, uh…what do you need?”

“Hold me,” Jopson says immediately. “Don’t go yet.” Glances up from where his head lies on Edward’s shoulder. “Walk me back to my room in a bit? Merch opens early tomorrow.”

“Whatever you need, pet,” Edward says—and oh, god, the soft smile that Jopson gives him is for _him_ , it’s just for him.

Jopson’s hand is still curled around Edward’s softening cock, and as Edward relaxes against the wall, rubs his hand gently on Jopson’s back, he realizes that he could get used to this.

He wants to get used to this.

⛓️

It’s early in the morning by the time Edward meanders back to his room. He’d dozed off in the stairwell, Jopson’s warm body curled up against his own. Woken some time later to Jopson gently tracing out the contours of his face, mapping it like he was trying to remember Edward, and Edward had kissed him until they’d both been light-headed with it. Escorted him back to his hotel room, only to find that Jopson’s definition of a goodnight kiss involved a lot more tongue than what Edward would have anticipated—tongue, Jopson’s body pressed back against the wall, and Edward’s knee between his legs.

(There’d been a suspicious hitch to Jopson’s breath that Edward is going to investigate at length tomorrow.)

And now, it’s four in the morning, and the goddamn sun is starting to come up, and Edward doesn’t recall ever having felt so happy. He’d whistle if they weren’t in a hotel, and as it is, he keeps catching himself humming under his breath. He feels fucking amazing. Exhausted, yes, and he should run his hands under cold water as soon as he gets into his room, but knowing he’ll be sore tomorrow heightens his mood instead of diminishing it.

He takes his keycard out of his back pocket. Reaches for his cellphone so he can toggle the flashlight, and remembers, belatedly, that he’d left it behind in the hotel room. It’s fine. If he trips over Tozer’s boots, that’s Tozer’s fault.

Edward yawns, his jaw cracking. He could sleep for a week, easily, but sleeping in past noon will be enough. Maybe he’ll bring Jopson lunch. Imagining the look on Jopson’s face when he does is enough to make Edward smile again, and with that, he taps his keycard against the door, opens it as quietly as possible.

The first thing visible is a set of boots. (Of course.)

The second thing is the camo-clad legs attached to them.

The light in the bathroom is on, spilling light out into the entrance of the hotel room, where Tozer is laid out on the floor, unconscious and reeking of booze. The missionary-looking guy from earlier is crouched down beside him, his hands under Tozer’s arms like he’s trying to tug him toward the bed.

“Um,” Edward says.

(He’s tried that same hauling technique before, but it doesn’t work worth shit—trying to move a passed-out Tozer isn’t a one-man job.)

The guy looks up sharply, like a deer in the headlights.

“...Hickey here?” Edward asks, scanning the hotel room behind him.

The guy shakes his head sharply.

Edward glances down at Tozer, nudges Tozer’s leg with his boot. Tozer stirs, slightly, makes a half-hearted attempt to open his eyes without success.

_Call me pet, and I’ll come all the time._

Edward sighs, pushes all his thoughts of Jopson to the back of his mind so that he can focus on the practicalities the current situation requires. “He been sick yet?”

The guy shakes his head. “No, he hasn’t.” Stands up. “I’m John Irving.”

“Edward Little,” Edward says, gruffly.

Irving extends his hand.

Edward tries for a perfunctory handshake, winces when Irving squeezes his hand a little too firmly. “I’ll, uh,” he says.

Sighs.

(Part of him wishes he’d stayed in the stairwell with Jopson—but he knows how to deal with this. Irving clearly doesn’t.)

Edward takes a deep breath, steps into the hotel room, and shoulders his responsibilities. “I’ll swap you places,” he says. “You take his feet—let’s drag him into the bathroom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Notes:** boot kink | Jopson is enthusiastically consenting to all play, including: being pinned against a wall; being hit to the point of bruising; hair pulling; scratching; being chased and wrestled down to the mat; face-slapping; having his chest bitten | the majority of the aftercare happens in a hard cut and isn’t on-page | genital piercings comma lots | 
> 
> **~~~THE END NOTES~~~**
> 
> **Misc Observational Notes:** Bootblacking is typically done by donation, and the money goes to charity. I’m sure Silna has a good one earmarked for this. Edward donated significantly more than is standard.
> 
> Contrary to the joplittle experience, the dungeon was actually full of other people and activities at the time. It's just that neither of them noticed. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Chapter four, _Kink_ , goes up next Friday!!
> 
> If you'd like to read more, there's a [behind-the-scenes post on Tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/post/615677716810907648/closer-chapter-three-consensual-bonus-features)!
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula) and on [tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/) and [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/heyktula).
> 
> My sincerest thanks to [Autumn](/users/for_autumn_i_am/), who beta-read this for me and left a number of fantastic notes in the margins. I also owe a great deal to [Deadsy](/users/deadsy/), who copy-edited on short notice and was instrumental in me even going to a convention in the first place, and to [Asher_Ephraim](/users/Asher_Ephraim/), who confirmed my words were words and who also enjoys Secretary quite a lot.


	4. Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Though, Harry—you said the lad from the military booth, yes? Surely you don’t mean the one at the back end of the dungeon last night, because I was watching, and he didn’t seem—oh, yes, the other one, alright. Yes, I’ll go talk to Tuunbaq. Thank you for letting me know.”
> 
> Or, the one in which the merch hall is open, but the military booth is mostly closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again! Content notes are at the end, though there's not much for this chapter.

Thomas wakes before his alarm. He opens his eyes to an empty hotel room, and a scrawled note from Blanky propped up against the bedside lamp.

_At breakfast—will open both booths. Sleep, ffs._

“Pft,” Thomas says. He turns off the alarm on his cellphone, and then deliberately flops down hard on the bed, grinning up at the ceiling when a warm throb of pain blossoms across his shoulders. He drags his fingers over the rest of his torso, checking, and he’s _wonderfully_ sore, everywhere from his pecs to his ribs, even slightly on one of his hips, though he’s not quite sure what that’s from. Thomas takes an experimental deep breath—and, oh, even at the peak of his lung capacity, his breath is not impeded at all.

Edward Little is a goddamn _expert_ , and Thomas is more than half in love with him.

He gets out of bed, undresses and steps into the shower before it’s warmed up completely. Shudders when his body breaks out in goosebumps, but the brief shock of ice-cold water on his scalp is comforting. Imagines, briefly, a world where Ned is sprawled out in Thomas’ bed—but in that world, Thomas sure as heck isn’t showering at seven forty-five in the morning, not with the promise of a naked or nearly-naked Edward Little next to him.

(Well, he’d still be working Francis’ booth. So he’d have to be in the shower by eight, at the latest. But still—fifteen minutes curled around Ned sounds absolutely fantastic right now.)

Thomas lets his mind wander while he washes his hair, soaps himself efficiently while he thinks of last night, how glorious Ned was with his eyes dark, his gaze intensely focused on Thomas. He presses the fantasy away when he towels his hair dry, gets back on task when he steps out of the shower to shave at the sink. He’ll have to check the location of the nearest bank in case he has to do a change run sometime today for himself and Blanky, and he needs to review the email he’d drafted to Francis last night just to make sure the numbers are accurate—and then he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and stops in the act of toweling off.

No wonder his hip aches—there are pale bruises there, the ghosted imprint of Ned’s fingers. He doesn’t remember being grabbed—but it must have happened, because it’s right there, on his skin. Thomas smiles, turns slowly. Ned is true to his word—there are bruises on his chest, bruises on his sides, bruises on his back, and Thomas doesn’t remember ever being happier.

He’s whistling as he shaves, still whistling as he wanders out to the hotel room to get dressed. He chooses a pale blue button-up for today, black chinos. He deftly buttons his shirt up to his neck, and then undoes the top two buttons, carefully adjusts the collar so it displays his bare, unmarked neck.

He wants to make sure Ned notices.

⛓️

Blanky looks up from his phone when Thomas sits down across from him. “Thought I told you to sleep in.”

Thomas shrugs. “Merch hall opens at nine, gotta eat.” And he’s ravenous this morning—he’s loaded his plate up with pancakes, bacon, fruit, and a glass of orange juice, and he’s still considering getting snacks when he goes across the street for coffee. “How’s Francis?”

“Irritable.”

“Tell him to check his email, I sent him the numbers from Saturday on my walk down, that should improve things for him.”

Blanky chuckles, taps in a response on his phone. “You know you can rest, right?”

Thomas swallows—oh, the pancakes are delicious even without the maple syrup, but the syrup makes them _so_ much better—and shrugs. “I took last night off. That’s good for me, thanks.” He shifts in his seat, which doesn’t do anything for him today. But maybe tomorrow morning it will, if Ned is half as good in bed as he was on the mats.

“Speaking of last night,” Blanky says. He sets his phone down, leans forward. “You up at the lounge at any point?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Watched the showcase—don’t raise your eyebrows at me, Ned suggested it—bootblacked, and then played. Why?”

“Bridgens was by.” Blanky spins his knife idly on the table. “Goodsir is trying to sort out something that happened last night—they’re looking for someone named Hickey.”

Thomas considers a moment. “The name doesn’t ring a bell to me. What went on?” He carefully cuts up his last pancake, devours it, and starts in on the bacon, smearing it through the remnants of maple syrup.

“Still trying to figure that out,” Blanky says. “Bridgens thought it sounded like they’d overserved someone, but if that’s the case, that’s a staff issue. Shouldn’t need to find anyone else.”

Thomas nods. “I guess we’ll see if we hear anything else.”

Blanky makes a face. “I’ll maybe wander around this afternoon and see what I hear.” He scans the room behind Thomas. “If you need this evening off, I don’t mind working…”

Thomas shakes his head, swallows. “We agreed I’d have Saturday night off, and you’d have Sunday.”

“That was before—”

“No,” Thomas says firmly. “Your turn.” He nudges his fruit salad with his fork, starts sorting the fruit into separate piles. “Is Bridgens getting a fair amount of traffic? I’ve been sending people over when I can.”

“Between you and Ross, I think the poor man will be lucky if he’s not sold out by the end of the day.”

“Good,” Thomas says. “You should talk to him about getting in on our storage locker for the remnants, we’ve got the space for it.”

“I’ll mention it,” Blanky says. He picks up his coffee cup, takes a sip, and grimaces.

“I’ll head across the street after this,” Thomas offers. “Get us the good coffee. I’m picking up donuts for Ned anyway. He doesn’t know I’m getting them, but I figured I’ll just leave them at his booth, and then they’re there for whenever he’s…” He trails to a stop, makes a face. “I’m babbling.”

“You are, a bit,” Blanky says, grinning. “Glad you had a good night, you deserve it.” He stands up, picks up his coffee cup and his empty plate. “I’m going to get rid of this swill and wander over to merch. I’ll see you there.”

Thomas nods, goes back to his food. Starts in on the strawberries, before moving over to the blueberries, leaving the pineapple for last. The babbling is fine, he decides. If he’s still feeling a bit spinny the day after a scene, that’s perfectly fine—he’ll be a little more outgoing than usual, and maybe it’ll help sell more books.

And, honestly? He’s never had the pleasant endorphins from a scene last this long before.

He makes a mental note to tell Ned that, the moment he gets a chance.

(Preferably, he’ll be in Ned’s lap when he says it.)

* * *

The alarm going off is like an ice-pick to Edward’s brain. Mornings have never really been his thing, and this particular morning is no exception. He sits up in bed, rubs his eyes, wincing as the right one sends a dull punch of pain up into his head. He squints, dismisses his phone alarm, which he’d helpfully labelled _run Tozer’s booth—_ a great idea at four thirty in the morning, when it was quite clear that Tozer wasn’t in any shape to open the booth this morning, and Edward was still riding high on the endorphins from the scene with Jopson.

It’s a less great idea at eight thirty in the morning, because Edward doesn’t feel like he’s in any particular shape to run the booth either. The need for sleep is an ache that permeates his entire body, and his hands feel awkward and thick. He wants, badly, to curl back up and pull the covers over his head, Tozer’s booth be damned—but those are brave words, and Edward isn’t a brave man. He’s a responsible one, the kind of person who will shoulder all his own duties and Tozer’s besides, just so there’s no risk of either of them looking bad in anyone’s eyes. He likes this conference. He likes this country. Jopson will be back in six months to give his talk, and Edward is going to be right there in the front row to support him, and that means that nothing can go wrong this weekend.

He sighs, pulls the covers over his head. The queen-sized bed is too small, and yet the lack of Jopson in it makes the bed seem vast and empty. He’d neglected to exchange socials with Jopson last night, but swipes his phone open anyway, because maybe the threat of hundreds of unread emails will be enough to force him out of bed.

(It’s not. It just makes him feel vaguely sick, and he sets down his phone without opening a single one, stares at the ceiling.)

He’s tempted to email Jopson, just to make sure Jopson knows Edward is thinking of him. How to start, though? By saying hello, or good morning?

He considers, briefly, sending a selfie—but the moment he opens his camera, he scraps that possibility, because there’s a lurid bruise under his eye from the hit he’d taken yesterday, and he looks a little like he’s been roughing it in the wilderness for at least a week.

Edward sets his phone down, glances at the bathroom.

Maybe the words will be clearer after he has a shower.

⛓️

Edward steps over Tozer to get into the shower, cranks it to cold. The water numbs his aching hands, but doesn’t wake him up as much as he’d hoped. Steps back over Tozer again, walks over to the closet to get dressed. Black tank, Versace boxers, leather trousers, leather suspenders. Rainbow socks, in case Jopson has the opportunity to see them, and finds them funny. The boots Jopson had polished last night, which somehow look even better in the morning light than they had yesterday. Jopson’s handkerchief is folded neatly on the closet shelf, and Edward tucks it into his back pocket again, leaves half of it sticking out as a visible sign of Thomas’ affection. He’s still not entirely certain how he’ll phrase his email, but the words will come. (He hopes the words will come.)

He runs his hands back through his hair. He should probably shave, but there isn’t time for that. Isn’t time for anything other than making sure he has his notes for today’s talk and leaving the hotel room with just enough time to walk across the street for coffee. Tozer can figure out his own morning, and that’s fine, he shouldn’t have gotten dragged into Hickey’s bullshit anyway, he knows better than that, and it’s not like Edward hasn’t told him—

—and then Edward remembers the stubborn look on Jopson’s face after he’d called Hickey on his bullshit during Edward’s talk yesterday. Edward himself had completely failed to avoid stepping into one of Hickey’s traps, so it’s not really fair of him to lambaste Tozer for doing the same. (Jopson wouldn’t find that admirable.)

Sighing, Edward unplugs Tozer’s phone from the charge cord he’d stuck it on last night, turns on the ringer, and sets it within Tozer’s reach. Leaves a bottle of water there as well. Stands at the desk staring at the hotel stationery trying to figure out what he needs to communicate to Tozer. _Irving dragged you home—please advise how, he’s half your size?_ No, for all Edward knows, Tozer was conscious right up until they got to the room. _I mean this with all due respect, but what the fuck happened last night?_ No, it’s really none of Edward’s business—Tozer is a notorious over-sharer, Edward will know everything by the end of the day without needing to ask. _Unsure if you made plans for your booth, but I’m going to check on it for you?_ No—the plans themselves are irrelevant, because they weren’t made with Edward, meaning they would have been made with Hickey—and there’s no way Hickey will be there to open the booth at nine am, because that would require him to do some goddamn work.

In the end, Edward just scribbles _Sol - at booth_ , and props the note up against the water bottle.

As long as he hurries, he can still get coffee before making it to the merch hall on time.

⛓️

Edward does not make it to the merch hall on time.

He’d had a chance of it—leaving the note for Sol hadn’t taken that long, and there should have been plenty of time for him to get coffee and make it to the merch hall in enough time to be ready when it opened at nine. But he’d needed to go back to the hotel room twice—once to scrawl his initials on the bottom of the note, just in case Tozer mistook his handwriting for Hickey’s, and a second time to find the keys to the lockbox, which had turned out to be in Tozer’s cargo pants, which he was still wearing. By the time the keys were extracted and he’d gotten Tozer pulled back onto his side, coffee was merely a pleasant daydream, faded out of the realm of reality entirely.

He’s within visible distance of the merch hall when there’s a brief touch of a hand on his arm, and, like an idiot, Edward turns.

It’s John Irving, brow furrowed in concern. “How is he?”

Edward stops walking, blinks. It takes a moment for his brain to switch gears—a moment which stretches out longer than it should when he realizes that Irving was deep in conversation with Lady Jane Franklin when Edward walked by, and now both of them are looking at him like he holds all the answers. “Uh.”

(God, he can hear Goodsir’s voice echoing behind him from the merch hall, which means he would have already noted that Edward isn’t there, which means—)

“He’s…sleeping,” Edward says.

“Oh, good,” Irving says, the tension instantly melting off his face. “I’m so glad he made it to bed.”

Edward attempts to mimic his smile. He needs to extract himself from this conversation, immediately.

“Who’s this, then?” Lady Franklin asks. She’s wearing a vintage dress from a decade Edward should probably recognize, but doesn’t. (Jopson would, he’s sure of it.)

“Lady Franklin, this is Edward Little,” Irving says.

Edward nods his head. “Pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Lady Franklin says. “Is your friend ill, then?”

Irving’s face darkens.

“Migraine,” Edward lies. “Temporary.” Cringes as soon as he says it—it’s an awkward lie, made more awkward by the skeptical look on Lady Franklin’s face. He glances over his shoulder. The merch hall is definitely open now, and from the looks of it, things are busy this morning. “I’m sorry, I should go—”

“Does he need anything?” Lady Franklin asks. “My husband has connections with event staff, we can send medical up to your hotel room—”

“He’s fine,” Edward says. “It’s just—time. He just needs time. A dark room.”

Irving mutters something under his breath.

Edward stalwartly refuses to make eye contact with him.

“Well,” Lady Franklin says. “If you’re quite sure…”

“Certain,” Edward says. He ducks his head. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Franklin. Irving. I’ve really got to get going, my apologies.”

“Do let us know if you need anything,” Lady Franklin says.

“Of course,” Edward says. He turns, blocks out the conversation still occurring behind him, heads for the merch hall—only to catch Goodsir’s eye on the way in.

“Edward,” Goodsir says. “I was looking for you—with me, a moment?”

“I should really—”

“Right,” Goodsir says. “The booth.”

Edward flinches. So he had noticed. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“I won’t keep you, then,” Goodsir continues. “But I just wanted to let you know that we’re looking after it.”

“You’re…”

“Obviously, we take this very seriously,” Goodsir says, frowning. “It’s just—taking a bit of time to sort out—I’m sorry, I said I wouldn’t keep you.” He pats Edward’s arm. “I’ll let you go, and update you as soon as we can. He’s doing alright?”

“…he’s fine,” Edward says, more confused than ever.

Goodsir nods, pats Edward’s arm again, and then keeps walking.

Edward stares after him a moment before shaking his head. He has no idea what the fuck is going on. (He wants, desperately, to be back in the basement with Jopson, curled up on the floor, with his face buried in Jopson’s hair.)

He hunches his shoulders, walks into the merch hall. He wants to stop by Jopson’s booth on the way over, just for the simple reassurance of his presence—but, unsurprisingly, there are a cluster of people around Jopson’s booth. He can see Jopson himself, smile bright, and that one piece of hair fallen forward again. Edward aches to push it back behind his ear, to tip his forehead against Jopson’s, to breathe his air, to kiss his lips just once, just once—but Jopson has responsibilities, and Edward does too, and it’ll just have to wait. Edward glances over at Tozer’s booth, in the hopes that no customers are there and he can delay opening it for the five minutes it’ll take to catch Jopson’s eye—but there are already people there handling merchandise, and it won’t wait.

 _Fuck_ , Edward thinks, and with one last mournful look over at Jopson, he steels himself, and goes to do his duty.

⛓️

It’s not possible for him to sustain himself on the glimpses of Jopson that he gets through the crowds of people, but damn it, Edward is _trying_.

It might be possible, though, to sustain himself on the doughnut ball things that Jopson tucked in behind the display. For one, Jopson actually wrote a note on them. Nothing fancy—just _Ned_ , with a little handwritten squiggle next to it that’s almost a heart, if you squint. For two, Edward is imagining that Jopson carefully curated the flavours that went into the box. And, for three, Edward’s having a hard time not imagining Jopson feeding them to him by hand, and it’s making the entire process of eating very distracting.

Fuck, though. He had three people waiting to buy things the moment he got to the booth, had fumbled through the cashbox and getting the card reader up and running, and no sooner had he sent those three on their way—chest harness, a couple collars, and a police baton—then there were more to take their place. He catches a couple people staring at him oddly. It’s probably the goddamn bruise from yesterday’s fuckup. Well, that, and the fact that Tozer isn’t there. Or maybe Edward’s just fucking up something else that he’s completely unaware of.

It’s one pm before things finally calm the fuck down, and Edward collapses into the chair behind the booth with a sense of relief that lasts for about thirty seconds before he remembers that he’ll have to actually restock the booth. He has no idea how Tozer has organized any of the bins, and also, it’s after noon, and he still hasn’t seen Tozer in person, Edward’s cellphone is forgotten back in his room, and he’s still—

“Hi.”

Edward looks over, and it’s like all of his anxiety just instantly disappears. “Jopson. Tom. Hi.”

( _Most_ of his anxiety. Not all of it, never all of it, not when he’s feeling like this.)

Jopson beams at him. Tips his head towards the rest of the merch hall. “Looks like things have quieted down for a minute—mind if I come back there?”

“Please,” Edward says. Thinks of Jopson at his feet, curled up against his shins, tucked under the table for Edward’s eyes only, curled up in Edward’s bed. (Owned.)

“Thank you,” Jopson says. He comes around the side of the table, stands waiting like he wants something, like he’s looking for permission, like—

Cautiously, Edward spreads his legs, just a little. Shifts his right hand until it’s sitting on his thigh, and watches Jopson’s eyes track the movement. Bites at one of his lip rings, and then taps his fingers, a simple enough movement that can be completely ignored if Jopson is so inclined—

—but he’s not inclined that way, not at all. He comes when Edward calls him, sits down on Edward’s lap facing him with his forearms on Edward’s shoulders, and that little mysterious half-smile of his brightening up his entire face. His shirt collar is open again today, and Edward is devastated, completely, by the dual imagery of the pale bruises just under Jopson’s collarbone, and the pristine expanse of soft, unmarked skin on his neck.

Edward swallows. Brings his hands up to Jopson’s thighs. Rests them there.

“Whatever happened to sleeping until noon?” Jopson teases, tugging at the back of Edward’s hair gently. “If I’d known you were going to be here first thing, I’d have brought you coffee as well as Timbits.”

Edward grunts, focused on the movement of his palms up and down Jopson’s thighs. “…would have liked that,” he says, finally. “Not a morning person.” He considers explaining the whole debacle—how long it had taken him and Irving to get Tozer hauled into the bathroom in the first place, how Tozer’d started snoring around five in the morning, loud enough that Edward couldn’t drown it out even with his pillow over his head, the cold shower he’d taken, the way his hands still ache under the snug fingerless gloves he’s wearing to try and support them—but he doesn’t want to hear himself talk.

He just wants to listen to Jopson.

“Tell me something, Tom,” Edward says. “Just—anything. Whatever you like.” _Tell me something to calm me down, something that’s going to take the edge off—tell me something, please._ He’s exhausted from last night, emotionally and physically, and just—needs the reassurance that it was good for Jopson, too. (Please, let it have been good for Jopson, too.)

Jopson smiles, shifts in Edward’s lap. He’s heavier than he looks, and Edward relaxes into Jopson’s weight, lets it ground him. Keeps his hands on Jopson’s thighs, stroking with his thumb. Jopson smells—clean, like laundry detergent, but Edward still remembers the way his sweat smelled last night, the way his tears tasted, the way Jopson’s hair fell across his forehead, his eyes hazy with subspace.

“Well,” Jopson says. “I _am_ a morning person, back at home. l bring my laptop to bed most mornings because it’s the warmest spot in the flat. Francis doesn’t care where I work from, as long as the work gets done, and if I open my window, I can listen to the birds while I work. I usually work on site in the afternoons and evenings, and I read on the commute. I’m good at my job, and I take a lot of pride in that. I don’t have much of a social life because I work so much, but I did mean what I said yesterday when I said you could come see me in London—I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I haven’t been thinking of much else, actually. You worked me over wonderfully yesterday.”

Oh, thank fuck. He had a nice time. He’s happy. He’s been thinking about London. (It should be enough to make Edward feel normal, why isn’t it enough?) Edward glides his hands a little further up Jopson’s legs. “How’re you feeling today?”

“Fantastic,” Jopson says. “Talkative, still. Affectionate. Caffeinated.” He smiles, tugs at a lock of Edward’s hair. “How are _you_ feeling?”

Edward’s hands still, fingers just shy of the beltloops on Jopson’s trousers. “Um.”

Jopson waits.

(The empathy is almost overwhelming.)

“…not used to getting asked that, actually.” He taps his fingers on Jopson’s thighs. “Yesterday was perfect. Today is alright, I’m still...waking up. Fine, though.” He’s wondering whether he is, though. He would dearly like to just pick Jopson up, walk them both back to bed, and collapse in it for the rest of the day, booth be damned. Yesterday was perfect—they should celebrate it today. (He can’t do that, he has responsibilities.) He’s already dreading the flight home and the conference isn’t even over yet. There’s something buzzing in his veins, and it isn’t caffeine, it’s the same creeping dread that permeates the rest of his life, only dialed up a little bit louder than usual, like a full-body itch. “Yesterday was amazing,” he says, and even though the words are sincere, his voice makes it come out flat. “Bit off today, but I...don’t do well with sleep deprivation.”

Jopson hums, wriggles on Edward’s lap.

“Honestly,” Edward says. He squeezes Jopson’s thighs. “Yesterday was amazing.” No, he’s said that already. Fuck, where are the words? “ _You’re_ amazing.”

...fuck.

Jopson smiles at him warmly, pets the back of his neck. “Be that as it may,” he says, gently tapping his forehead against Edward’s. “Consider that yesterday might have been emotionally taxing?”

Edward looks at him. “Um.”

“What do you do for aftercare?” Jopson asks curiously. “Like—what did you do last night, after you walked me home?”

“I, er.” Edward hesitates, considers lying. Sighs, knowing that he won’t be able to pull it off—nor would he want to, because if Jopson wants him, he needs Jopson to want everything, not just the good bits. “Sorted out stuff with Tozer. Slept like shit. Set an alarm so I’d be up for this, figured Hickey wouldn’t show.”

Jopson blinks at him, head tilted. “We’ll come back to that,” he says cryptically. “Did you have something to eat?”

Edward nods toward the doughnuts. “Those,” he says. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Jopson says. He’s moved a little closer to Edward, and his fingers are interlaced on the back of Edward’s neck, thumbs stroking idly at Edward’s hairline. “When was the last time you had a really intense scene?”

“Last night,” Edward says honestly.

Jopson goes pink. “I’m flattered, thank you. But before that.”

Edward hums noncommittally. Everything he’s ever done before has paled in comparison to last night. “It was a bit ago.”

“What’d you do after?”

That, Edward remembers. “You’ll think it’s weird.”

“Try me,” Jopson says earnestly.

Edward huffs out a breath, tips his head and rests his forehead on Jopson’s shoulder so he can speak to Jopson’s lap rather than having to look at his face. “Had Tozer beat me up.”

There’s a pause.

(There’s always a pause.)

Edward sighs, starts to mentally assemble an apology. He’s done it again—let his guard down, said too much. The apology has never worked in the past. But he’ll have to try. There’s always a chance Edward will get it right this time, even though he’s not remotely ready for this (it was going so _well_ ), but he has to, he has to start, he’ll just—he’ll start by—saying—

“ _Oh_ ,” Jopson says, voice gone rough. “Right. That’s…”

Edward lifts his head up, looks at Jopson cautiously.

Jopson’s face is _very_ pink. “Quite the mental image,” he says. He swallows, visibly. “You and Tozer were, uh. Both holding back during the demo yesterday, then.”

“Ah, yeah,” Edward admits. “I mean, outside of the bit I fucked up.”

“Well,” Jopson says. His eyes have got that slightly glazed-over look to them again.

Edward looks at him skeptically. Clears his throat. “I should apologize…”

Jopson’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why?” He scrunches his nose, frowns. “Was that meant to be a joke?”

“God no,” Edward says instantly. Brings his hand up, intending to caress Jopson’s face, but only getting as far as his pristine, unmarked neck. “No, I really did have him beat me up. That information generally just isn’t—taken that well.” He shrugs self-consciously, hyper-aware of Jopson’s pulse under his thumb. “Submissives—people—are drawn to the, er. The sadist part, not so much the whole, er. Package. Parcel. Whatever.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Jopson says softly.

“…it’s not all that usual for a dom,” Edward says. He swallows. “The, uh—the sadomasochist—thing. People expect—just the first half. Not, er, me. I don’t…go over…all that well. With people.”

Jopson chuckles, leans into Edward’s hand. “Their loss. My gain.” He squeezes Edward’s legs with his own. “Is there anything else you do?”

Edward shuts his eyes, tries to think. It’s difficult, with Jopson right there, with the weird, odd joy that’s trying to bubble its way up through everything else that’s going on in his brain. “Don’t think so.”

“Well,” Jopson says, “if that’s what we need to do for your top drop, there’s nothing to that at all. And we can keep checking in with each other, yes? Sorry, I’m talking a mile a minute still—I get like that after scenes, I’ve never had it last this long, it’s wonderful—I just wanted to say it’ll get easier as we get to know each other better.”

“Yeah,” Edward says, voice thick. “It’ll—yeah, as we get to know each other, yeah.”

(God, he’d felt like a right arse this morning, staring at the two collars he’d purchased as he got dressed, and now? Now he’s just satisfied that he was right to buy them. His brain hasn’t settled down yet, won’t settle down for a while—but maybe he’s not in danger of losing Jopson while he waits it out. Maybe Jopson doesn’t mind, doesn’t find him a burden.)

“Good,” Jopson says brightly. “So you’ll look after that with Tozer, then?”

Edward leans back against the chair, lifts his heels off the floor so Jopson slides a little closer on Edward’s lap. Shakes his head. “He’ll be useless the rest of the day.” Slides his hand down Jopson’s torso, rests it on the waistband of his trousers. “I’m fine.”

Jopson makes a noncommittal noise. Wriggles a bit closer to Edward, and, oh, now they’re pressed close together, as close as they’d be if Edward were fucking him—and Edward badly, badly wants to fuck him, if Jopson will let him. Jopson’s arse looks very fuckable in these trousers, and Edward wants to undo the button, slide the zipper down. Ease his trousers off, run his hands up Jopson’s legs. And if Jopson doesn’t want Edward’s cock in his arse, maybe he’d accept it between his thighs. Maybe he’ll want it in his mouth again, Edward’s hand in his hair. Maybe—

“Oh,” Jopson says suddenly, sitting up straight. “Actually, um. I just thought of something. About the top drop. With Tozer being out of commission...I might be able to help you—I know some people—could I ask around a bit? On your behalf?”

Edward hesitates.

“Only if you want,” Jopson adds. “We could also, um. Go for a run?”

In Edward’s imagination, Jopson’s running outfit consists of a transparent loose tank, and extremely short shorts. “I’ll just want to fuck you in the bushes,” Edward mutters. “Yeah, you can—yeah. If you want to arrange something, go ahead.”

Jopson leans forward, kisses Edward’s cheek. “We can negotiate fucking,” he says softly. “We can negotiate anything you want. I think you’ll find that I’m very flexible.”

Someone clears their throat.

Edward ignores them, nuzzles into Jopson’s cheek. A minute, he just wants a minute more—

“Hey, uh, I had a question,” someone says.

Jopson turns. “Hi, yes.”

Edward groans quietly.

Jopson pats him on the shoulder as he shifts off Edward’s lap, stands up. “What were you wondering?” His customer service voice is bright and chipper, and everything Edward isn’t.

Edward runs his hand through his hair. Rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, puts his head in his hands. He’s way too distracted to be here right now. It’s the sleep deprivation, and—and the, the top drop, he supposes, and Jopson’s presence is helping but now—

“—colour coded,” Jopson is saying. “Here, you can see there’s a snap on either side of the jockstrap, and the leather flags will just attach right on there. You can flag however you like—may as well make things obvious, you know? I can sort you out as soon as you’re ready.”

“Um,” the customer says. “What if I get the whole set?”

“Well,” Jopson says, “there’d be no stopping you then, would there! Here, I’ll wrap those up.”

Something nudges Edward’s foot. He looks up, realizes that Jopson’s foot is overtop his.

Jopson is looking at him, and smiling. “Sir, I was wondering…?”

“Go ahead,” Edward says. “Cashbox is, uh—yeah, there, and there’s bags—yeah, underneath there. Thank you.” He watches as Jopson effortlessly takes the customer’s money, finalizes the sale, deftly slides the items inside a black plastic bag.

When Jopson turns back to him, it’s with a slightly nervous smile. “Did I—?”

God, he's competent. He's competent and smart and handsome and absolutely _everything_.

Edward stands up. He wraps his hand around the back of Jopson’s neck, encourages Jopson to lean against him. Whispers into his ear, voice low. “You did so _good_ , pet. Look at you. Just look at you.” He slides his hand from Jopson’s neck down Jopson’s spine, palms his arse through his trousers once, briefly, before letting him go. “If we can’t fuck in the dungeon, I doubt they’ll let us fuck back here. How much time do I have with you? I shouldn’t keep you from your booth, Tom.”

Jopson sighs into his shoulder, presses his lips against Edward’s neck. “I guess, I suppose the—oh, yikes, the keynote is done.” He straightens, adjusts his shirt. “Yes, I should head back. I’ll talk to you soon, Si—Ned.”

“Good boy,” Edward murmurs. He watches Jopson go, laments the loss of Jopson’s presence in his booth, Jopson’s weight on his lap—but he can have that again later. He realizes, now, despite the headache and the exhaustion and that nervous energy that’s vibrating under his skin—despite all that, he’s smiling, and it’s because of Jopson.

He watches Jopson duck in behind his own booth, start selling books again.

Pops another doughnut hole into his mouth.

Waits.

⛓️

There’s a dull thunk on the table above him.

Edward looks up by impulse, whacks his head on the underside of the table. “ _Fuck_.” He sits back on his arse, drags the box he was digging in out from underneath the table, and glances up. “Well, you look like death.”

“Brought your cellphone,” Tozer says. He sits down heavily in the chair behind the booth, gives Edward a ghoulish smile. He’s wearing a baggy hoodie, and the laces on his boots are loose. (He might still be wearing yesterday’s trousers.) “You’re not going to believe the conversation I just had.”

“Try me,” Edward offers. He reaches back into the box he was digging in, feels around in the bottom. No dog tags. Sighs, pushes the box back under the table, and grabs the next one.

“You know that huge guy they have on security?”

Edward winces. “Do you wanna head out to the hallway to have this conversation?”

“Nope,” Tozer says. “So he corners me on my way in an hour ago. I’m trying to tell him that I have a booth here, but he doesn’t speak English, and then that Goodsir guy shows up, and they hustle me off into this room with a bunch of other people. And I figure this is it, I’m fucked—but then they’re offering me coffee, and offering me doughnuts, and how am I feeling this morning, and am I doing alright, and am I previously acquainted with Cornelius Hickey?”

“…fuck,” Edward says.

“And I’m like, yeah, I know him, I was drinking with him last night. And they just look at me. And they look at each other. And then the doctor guy is like ‘we had some concerning reports about his behaviour’, but I don’t know who would have said anything, the only other person there was Irving. Fuck, man, I was answering questions for an hour.”

Edward turns, looks at Tozer. “Why? You got drunk.”

“That’s what I _said_ ,” Tozer replies. “Fuck if I know why anybody gives a shit about what I do in my personal time.”

“...too drunk,” Edward adds, because his headache is still pounding behind his eyes, and he’d have been better with Jopson this morning if he’d had more sleep.

“Well, piss off about it,” Tozer says, voice low. “I puked my guts out most of the morning, I’ve suffered enough.”

Edward takes a deep breath—and then exhales, lets it go. Shoves the bin back under the table—fuck the dogtags—and stands up so at least he can glance over at Jopson while he’s having this conversation with Tozer that he decidedly does not want to have, but feels like he should. “Fine. So Goodsir had questions. Did either of you do anything dumb?”

Tozer shrugs one shoulder. “Fuck if I know what Hickey did.” Gestures with his hand. “I went for a walk, pissed in some bushes, came back to the hotel, blacked out. No dumber than usual.” He leans forward, chair legs thumping back onto the floor. “And Hickey doesn’t drink, so whatever he did would have just been normal Hickey stuff.”

Edward frowns. “He doesn’t drink?”

Tozer gestures with both hands, palms open. “How didn’t you know that?”

“I try not to hang out with him any more than necessary.” Edward glances across the hall at Jopson, who has a lineup at his booth again. (Edward is so _fucking_ proud of him.) Forces himself to look away, focus on the situation at hand. _Fuck_ , he doesn’t _want_ this. He clears his throat. Glances at Tozer. “So Hickey was just...buying you drinks all night, trying to get you deliberately fucked up?”

“No,” Tozer says. “I was buying.”

Edward sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay.”

“Did he text you?” Tozer asks. “He was supposed to work the booth this morning.”

Edward picks his phone up off the table, opens it. Emails for days. No texts. “No.”

“Didn’t text me either,” Tozer says, standing up, and steadying himself with his hand on the back of the chair. “We’ll just...close the booth.” Moves his other hand in the air vaguely. “This afternoon. When we present.” Swallows. Grimaces. “Fuck, I’ll see you later. I gotta get something to eat.”

“Hey,” Edward says softly. He steps forward, touches Tozer’s arm with the back of his glove. “You sure you’re okay?”

Tozer’s eyes go distant. “It’s the weirdest thing,” he says after a moment. “I think I told Irving about Heather.”

Edward’s throat tightens.

Tozer shakes his head, gives Edward a thin smile. “Anyways, that’s fucked.” Knocks Edward’s hand away from his arm. “I’ll go prep for preaching to the perverts. Good luck on your safety talk. Don’t pick any pedantic fights.”

“I, uh. Yeah. I’ll try.”

“And fix your handkerchief,” Tozer adds. “‘s on the wrong side.”

Edward blinks. “My what?”

Tozer raises his eyebrows, and then winces, goes back to squinting. “Hanky code,” he lectures. “Black is for S&M. Your proclivities aside, I don’t figure you meant to flag sub. And stuff it if you tell me it’s a fashion choice, I ain’t got headspace for that bullshit today.” He glances upward. “I swear they turned the fucking lights up in here, Jesus. I’ll see you after, I gotta go.”

Edward reaches back, tugs Jopson’s handkerchief out of the right pocket.

_You can flag however you like—may as well make things obvious, you know?_

Edward swallows, and glances across the hall at Jopson. It’s nothing for Edward, he doesn’t spend any time in old guard spaces, and he generally ignores the info cards that Tozer has printed out to go with the jock straps unless somebody is buying one literally right at that moment—but Jopson had this handkerchief with him, had it on his person, when he approached Edward the day before. Jopson, who works for Francis Crozier, who frequents clubs like _Terror_ , who plays with people whose names are so prominent that Edward recognizes them right off the bat—Jopson, who has apparently been telling Edward exactly what he is into all weekend, it’s just that Edward hadn’t known to look.

Edward gazes down at the handkerchief in his hand, runs his thumb over the black-on-black monogrammed initials in the bottom corner.

Finds himself smiling as he folds the handkerchief back up, carefully puts it into his left back pocket, leaving the top of it sticking out.

Checks his watch.

If Edward closes the booth now, he’ll have a few minutes to see Jopson before his talk—and he needs that.

It’ll help him focus.

⛓️

“A good luck kiss, huh?” Jopson says. He looks Edward up and down, grins. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Edward leans over the table, meets Jopson’s lips with his own. This time, Edward expects the tongue—and, oh, it’s wonderful. Jopson’s hands are cradling the side of his face, and there’s something about the way that he’s so damn _sincere_ about the whole thing, like he puts the same amount of effort into a simple kiss as he does an elaborate scene.

Jopson is beaming when Edward pulls back. “Good?”

Edward pats Jopson’s cheek with his fingers; a slap with all the heat taken out of it, in the hope that it will still convey his affection. “You know it was—but yes. It was very good.”

“Sorry I’m missing your talk,” Jopson says, frowning a little. “I’m manning both booths for the next couple hours here. What are you speaking on?”

“Safety,” Edward says. “More expanded version of the negotiation talk from yesterday. Discussion of some scenarios. Q&A. That kind of thing.”

“SSC?” Jopson asks, eyes shining.

“Ah, yes,” Edward drawls. “The perfectly safe techniques for kicking submissives you like in the ribs. I’ll be sure to discuss all _zero_ of those in detail.”

Jopson leans in. “Those sound like advanced techniques,” he says softly. “You should save those for all the advanced submissives you like.”

“Yeah?” Edward says. “You want my boots, pet?”

“I want your boots,” Jopson says. “I want your fists.”

“You had my fists,” Edward reminds him. “You want them again?”

Jopson just raises his eyebrow. “Yes, but with a difference. Might I remind you about your blog—and also that it’s five minutes to the hour, Sir.”

Edward looks at his watch. Tries not to think about fisting. “Fuck. Right. Talk to you after?”

“Yes,” Jopson says. “Go, Ned.”

Edward nods. Leans forward again, presses his lips to Jopson’s cheek.

It’s perfect. Everything about this is perfect.

⛓️

“Okay, respectfully— _respectfully_ , I disagree with your point.” Edward runs his hand back through his hair. “There is—it’s. I feel as a whole, if we move toward RACK instead of stopping at SSC—there’s the, uh, pejorative use of, uh, well, there’s just...using the word _sane_ in the first place is, uh—”

⛓️

It’s not a perfect talk.

It’s about as far from that as it can get.

⛓️

Edward watches Jopson in the merch hall, because Jopson is the only thing that makes sense. The inside of Edward’s head is tangled and messy. The adrenaline from his talk left his body about five minutes after he exited the conference room. Now there’s only exhaustion, and a dull sort of lassitude that makes it hard to concentrate.

Jopson, though.

Jopson is easy on the eyes, his movements professional and precise as he neatly wraps up a parcel of books for someone, hands it over. His hand comes to his hair, pushing that stubborn piece back behind his ear, and then that same hand extends toward Edward, beckons.

“Come on, then,” Jopson says, without looking in his direction, a gentle smile dancing on his face. “Don’t just lurk in the edges of my vision, Ned.”

Edward skulks in behind Jopson, slinging his arms around Jopson’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. “When did you see me?”

“The moment you approached,” Jopson says, turning his head and kissing Edward’s cheek. “Can’t hide from me.” There’s a slight pause, and then Jopson chuckles. “Full disclosure, I have it on good authority that you had a bit of a time in your Q&A, so I’ve been keeping an eye out for you.”

Edward huffs out a breath. “I thought that was Blanky standing in the back.” He nuzzles at Jopson’s neck. “Don’t suppose I passed that particular test.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jopson says lightly. “The way Blanky tells it, that’s the second time this weekend you’ve dealt with someone deliberately trying to derail one of your panels.”

“Mmph.”

“If it helps,” Jopson continues, voice still soft but gently amused, “I’ve observed Francis and Sir John get into similar arguments about the merits of risk assessment.”

“Mmm.” Edward sniffs at Jopson’s neck, enjoying the smell of his soap.

“Francis would agree with you that a one-size-fits-all approach to safety is at best inappropriate, and at worst, downright dangerous.”

“That’s what I told Sir John,” Edward murmurs into Jopson’s neck. “I don’t think he appreciated it.” He hazards a glance to the empty booth beside Jopson. “How did Blanky even tell you? I wasn’t more than ten minutes late getting back here, and he’s already gone again.”

“Ah, he texted,” Jopson says.

Edward sighs again, shifts and starts nuzzling the back of Jopson’s neck. “I was warned not to be pedantic,” he says, lips brushing the collar of Jopson’s shirt, “and I have to confide in you that I likely failed, so if Blanky reported on that as well, please don’t hold it against me.”

“You’re in luck,” Jopson replies. “I like a pedant.”

Edward gives in to temptation, nips briefly at Jopson’s nape, and then rests his forehead on the back of Jopson’s head, stays there for a moment, breathing.

(His hands are shaking, just a bit—a fact that’s likely noticeable to Jopson, seeing as he’s dragging his fingertips from Edward’s half-glove to his exposed fingers and back again—but Jopson hasn’t said anything about it, and so Edward won’t bring it up.)

“Speaking of,” Jopson says. “I have someone to introduce you to later, if you’re still looking to get the edge taken off your top drop.”

Edward opens his mouth to say that he’s fine—and then closes it again. “You can feel my hands shaking,” he points out.

“Yes,” Jopson agrees.

“What’s on offer?”

“Impact play. Floggers, mostly. Probably a signal whip, if you’re interested. Nothing intimate—he’s running a private demo for a couple of interested people, and he’s likely to be lecturing while he does it. I can’t attend, but I don’t think it’ll be that busy here tonight, if you’d like to come back here afterwards.” Jopson pauses, leans back against Edward. “Actually, I never asked if you had plans in the dungeon for tonight.”

“Not if you’re here,” Edward says, pressing his fingers into Jopson’s stomach in an attempt to still the tremors. “I’ll come back to you after.”

Jopson squeezes his hand. “That’s a yes, then, on the play?”

Edward considers. He’s indifferent about floggers, but it’s been years since he’s been on the receiving end of a single-tail. If he remembers correctly, the sensation should be intense enough to jolt him out of the mindset he’s been wallowing through for most of the day. “It’s a yes, Tom. Thank you.”

“I’m glad of it,” Jopson says. He interlaces his fingers with Edward’s.

“Who is it?” Edward asks. It doesn’t matter much, either way—Jopson wouldn’t choose someone who didn’t have the skillset to back it up—but at the same time, he is curious.

“Ah,” Jopson says. “…James Clark Ross.”

Edward sucks in a breath, eyes widening. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

“I do not,” Jopson agrees seriously. He shifts, pats Edward’s hand. “I have customers coming, Ned.”

Edward presses another kiss to the back of Jopson’s neck, detaches himself and steps out of the booth to lean against the wall. He has to consciously pull his gaze away from Jopson, because he’d rather just watch him, but he doesn’t want to weird anyone out with the intensity of his feelings, especially when he knows he’s too distracted right now to modulate them in any way. Forces himself to look across the aisle.

Tozer has the booth open. He’s doing some kind of a sales pitch to a cluster of people gathered at his booth, most of whom are gazing at him with intense admiration. Well, he’ll like that.

And then Edward shifts his eyes to the side and sees Irving standing there, in a similar position to Edward but on the other side of the hall, and thinks— _well, he’ll probably like_ that _more._

“Tozer’s good at what he does, huh?” Jopson observes softly, leaning against the wall next to Edward.

“Yeah, when he tries,” Edward admits. “Shocked he rallied, to be honest.”

“Oh?” Jopson asks.

Edward grimaces. “Never told you—he was passed out cold when I got back to the hotel room last night. Piss-drunk.” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “That guy off to the side across the hall? That’s Irving, he was there. Between the two of us, we hauled Tozer into the bathroom, let him sleep it off there. I came to the booth first thing because Tozer was in no shape for it, and Hickey doesn’t do a damn bit of work if he can avoid it. Haven’t seen that fuck at all today.”

“Well,” Jopson says, after a bit of a pause. “I can clarify _that_ for you, if you like.”

Edward glances at him sidelong, and then turns, leans his shoulder against the wall, and reaches for Jopson, hooks two fingers of his right hand in Jopson’s belt loop. “Yeah?”

Jopson looks at him, raises his eyebrows. “Would you like to know?”

“Tell me,” Edward says, voice low. “Share with me.”

“I’m afraid you won’t like it,” Jopson warns.

“I might like it,” Edward counters.

“Tuunbaq removed a guy named Hickey from the convention this morning,” Jopson says. “He’s not allowed back in.”

Edward stares at him a moment.

“See,” Jopson says. “I warned you—”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Edward says. “I _love_ that. Christ, the fuck did he finally do?”

An expression of relief settles onto Jopson’s face, and he moves a half-step closer to Edward. “Haven’t heard anything coherent,” he says. “Something happened in the lounge last night.”

“Ah,” Edward says. “Tozer and Hickey were there just before eight.” He hesitates a moment. Clarifies. “Drinking. Well, Sol was drinking. He was already in rough shape then.”

Silence, then, as they both look across the hall at Tozer. He’s got a chest harness buckled over someone’s shirt, is currently lifting them up in the air with one hand and gesturing with the other as he talks.

“Hickey the missing stair of your group?” Jopson asks.

Edward sighs. Tugs at Jopson’s belt loop, marvels in the way that Jopson moves in closer with hardly any prompting at all. “It’s complicated,” he says. “I’ll tell you the details back in London. Hickey and Tozer are...well. There’s...shit, there’s a lot of history there, there’s...it’s a thing.” Edward shifts his foot, hooks Jopson’s ankle to keep him nice and close. “You know that was Hickey you derailed when he was trying to fuck up my talk, huh?”

Jopson’s eyebrows rise sharply before his eyes narrow. “Well, that explains a lot.”

Edward considers getting into more detail—and then, just as quickly, decides that he doesn’t want to. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Jopson hesitates a moment, and then his expression shifts to something softer, and more playful. “What do you suggest?”

“Tell me what you’re doing after the merch hall closes tonight,” Edward suggests. “I’d like to plan my schedule accordingly.”

“Trolling for dick,” Jopson says impishly. He drags his eyes down Edward’s body, then bites his lip deliberately and makes eye contact again. “Thought I might try for something with some metal in it, for the novelty.”

Edward’s face is hot. He swallows. “Better be careful,” he says, voice soft. “You might end up with exactly what you ask for.”

“I’d be awfully lucky if I did,” Jopson points out. He puts his hand on Edward’s chest, almost-but-not-quite flattening his palm over the piercing. Leans in close, eyes bright. “I want to negotiate a fuck.”

Edward grins, moves away from the wall and cages Jopson in with his arms, carefully putting his forearm across Jopson’s chest and applying light pressure. “Seeing as you’re getting me sorted out today,” he says, voice low, “negotiating a good fuck for a good boy is the least I can do for you.”

Jopson smiles at him, presses forward against Edward’s arm for a moment before relaxing back against the wall. “God help me, Ned,” he says. “How am I supposed to wait?” Glances at Edward’s face, and then down his body. “Figure we can make use of your hotel room for a couple hours tonight?”

Edward leans in, nips at Jopson’s jaw with his teeth. “I’ll sort it out, yeah.”

He’ll get Jopson more than a couple of hours.

He’ll get Jopson the entire night, even if he needs to pay Tozer to go sleep somewhere else.

⛓️

Edward brings back a coffee for Jopson, black and unsweetened. Orders his own the same way, and then, grimacing at the first sip, marches back to the little place they keep the lids and dumps sugar and cream in it to try and salvage the situation. He should eat, probably, but he’d rather go through the scene hungry, get room service after he’s finished. Room service, and maybe a small nap before he goes to hang out at the merch booth with Jopson. Considers, briefly, the merits of actually bringing the spare blanket from the hotel down to the merch hall so that he can curl up in the corner—but, then, he’ll feel better after he comes out the other side of the scene, after he’s been purified by the whip, after his head is back on straight again.

(When Jopson is proud of him—he’ll think more clearly when Jopson is proud of him.)

He almost expects James Clark Ross to be there when he arrives with the coffee, or, failing that, for Jopson’s booth to be full of customers, as it has been periodically all weekend—but it’s just Jopson there, chatting to someone with blonde hair in an elaborate updo, wearing a corset and a long skirt. Edward approaches with the coffees, catches Jopson’s eye, and he’s already too close to turn back when he glances over again and realizes—

“Edward,” Jopson says warmly. “Edward, this is Sophia Cracroft, I’m not sure you’ve met?”

“Ah, no,” Edward says awkwardly. Hesitates a moment, his hands occupied by both cups of coffee—but Jopson saves him, coming out from behind his booth and taking both cups of coffee from Edward so that he can, in turn, offer his hand to Sophia Cracroft. “Pleased to meet you.” Ducks his head in respect, then retreats, letting her hand go, thankful her grip was feather-light. “Showcase performance was well-done.”

She arches her eyebrow. “Thank you,” she says. “Are you interested in rope suspension, then?”

“Uh, not my area,” Edward says. “I don’t, uh—no.” Winces, a little, at the inelegance of his words—but Jopson sweeps in, scoops him out of the fire.

“Would you take these back, a moment?” Jopson says, handing both cups of coffee back to Edward and finally, blessedly, occupying his hands again. “Miss Cracroft, would you mind—?”

“Honestly, Thomas, after all we’ve been through.” Sophia sighs, and then turns to face the table, braces her hands on the edge of it. “You know you can still call me Sophy.”

“But Miss Cracroft is so much more elegant,” Jopson says lightly. His fingers are working at the laces in the middle of her back, undoing the knot there and carefully loosening them. He inhales, glances sidelong at Edward, and then doesn’t say anything, focuses his attention back on the corset.

Christ, to have Jopson’s hands on him like that. Edward casts his mind back through his own wardrobe in London, tries to think if he owns anything similar, anything that would involve Jopson’s hands on his back, Jopson’s hands, tugging at his laces. Jopson’s fingers are deft as he makes minute adjustments, smoothing the laces in some parts, giving them a partial twist in others. He tugs the laces at the top of the corset, and Miss Cracroft’s hands clench on the edge of the table, the display books that Jopson has set out wobbling ever so slightly.

Jopson steps back, frowns at the books as though he can glare them back into order. “Could you give us a hand, Edward?”

Edward blinks at him. “Er, what do I need to do?”

“I can just brace myself on the—”

“No,” Edward and Jopson say in unison.

There’s nothing else suitable in the vicinity. Edward crouches, sets the coffees down on the floor under the table, and then stands back up, widens his stance and holds his forearms out to Miss Cracroft. Her hands are cold when she grabs onto his forearms, and she’s just short enough that Edward can watch Jopson over her shoulder as he goes back to tugging at the laces again, hard enough that Edward needs to lean back a little to keep them stable.

“How tight do you want it?”

“Closed, if you can,” Miss Cracroft says.

“You’re not going to like it,” Jopson says.

“I’ll endure.”

Jopson glances up from the laces, meets Edward’s eyes. “Brace yourself, Ned,” he says.

Edward nods.

Watches as Jopson brings his knee up, rests it in the small of Miss Cracroft’s back, and then pulls, steadily, on the laces, working from the top of the corset down to his knee, and then putting his foot back on the floor, working from the bottom up to the center. Jopson raises his eyes, meets Edward’s. “This is the worst of it,” he says.

Edward nods. Glances at Miss Cracroft’s face, but her eyes are closed, her jaw set, and her hands clenched tightly on his forearms. Looks back at Jopson. “Go ahead.”

Jopson nods, does something with the laces where Edward can’t see him, and then pulls, hard enough that Edward needs to shift his balance to keep Miss Cracroft upright.

“All done,” Jopson says, slightly breathless. “Just give me a moment here.” His eyes go back to where his hands are working at her waist, and Edward flexes and releases his own hands, waits for Miss Cracroft to let go so he can step back. “There.”

“Thank you,” she says. She opens her eyes, takes an experimental breath. “I appreciate it, Tho—Jopson.”

Jopson nods, busies himself fixing the display books on the table. “I tucked the laces away to the sides,” he says. “One on each side, don’t let Dundy try to tell you that they’re both on the same side.”

She smiles, eyes dancing. “I’ll make note of it.”

Edward glances at the corset lacing as she turns to leave. “You’re very good at that, pet.”

“Thank you,” Jopson says, inserting himself under Edward’s arm, and taking a sip from one of the cups he’s now holding. “Oh, shoot, that’s your coffee—sorry.”

Edward takes the cup, licks where Jopson’s mouth had just been before taking a sip. “Ah, yes, it’s drinkable.”

Jopson chuckles, leans a little heavier against Edward. “Thank you for the help with Sophia.”

Edward tilts his head. “Not Miss Cracroft?”

Jopson sighs. “Old habits are hard to break.” He glances up at Edward, clarifies. “She and Francis…well, it’s been some months now, but, er. That’s…”

“Gone the course?” Edward asks, remembering Gore and Le Vesconte with her at the showcase the previous evening.

Jopson makes a face. “We’ll add that to the stories we’ll tell back in London.” He glances at Edward’s wrist, makes a small noise. “Oh, I ran up to my room and brought you back something—don’t feel obligated, of course.”

Edward nods, confused. Covers his confusion by taking another sip of coffee, watching Jopson’s arse as Jopson bends over, retrieves something from underneath the table.

“I just thought—depending on how it’s best for you to process, you might want the distance, or the ability to focus, or—sorry, I’m babbling again—anyway, this is mine, and I’d like for you to borrow it, if you want, since I can’t be there in person for you.” Jopson presses folded fabric into Edward’s hand.

Edward looks down at his hand, brushes the fabric with his thumb to unfold it. Realizes it’s a blindfold. That it’s Jopson’s blindfold. He looks back up at Jopson.

“It’s, er, handmade,” Jopson says. “By me. Very comfortable. I find sometimes, for really intense scenes, it’s nice to have the visual input gone—obviously, you can do what you like with Mr. Ross, it’s just—”

“It’s wonderful,” Edward says softly. He leans forward, presses his forehead against Jopson’s. “Thank you, pet.” Kisses Jopson’s nose. “I’m looking forward to spending the evening with you once I’m thinking a little more clearly.”

Jopson hums happily.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Edward says.

⛓️

Edward arrives at the conference room early. Waits outside, checking his watch at regular intervals until the minute hand ticks over. He contemplates knocking, decides instead that since the door is open, it’s okay to just go in.

(Regrets it immediately—he should have knocked—but he’s in now.)

The conference room is similar to the rooms he’s been presenting in all weekend—rows of chairs, with a podium and a table off to the side at the front. No crash pads in this room, but there is a St. Andrew’s cross up at the front. Edward hopes for a moment to get his bearings, but it’s not to be.

“Ah,” Ross calls, standing up from the table he was leaning against and approaching Edward. “You’re Jopson’s friend, then?”

“Edward Little,” he says in response, coming forward to shake Ross’ hand. “Yes, that’s me.”

Ross has a firm handshake, and a bright smile. He’s dressed casually—jeans, and a tshirt—and Edward feels horribly, awfully _over_ dressed.

“Jopson had nothing but effusive praise for you,” Ross says.

Edward feels his face go hot. Puts his hand behind his back, flexes and releases it. “Ah, well, er…”

“I’d have thought he was exaggerating, even though it’s not like him,” Ross continues, “except that I happened to see the two of you last night when I was between scenes, and the praise is well deserved.”

Edward glances to the front of the room, fidgets with one of his lip rings. Settles for nodding rather than trying to say anything, because he doesn’t know what an appropriate response could possibly be. He has no idea how the two of them might have looked last night. Sticks his hand in his back pocket, where he can ground himself on the embroidered initials of Jopson’s name on the edge of his handkerchief. Nods toward the cross. “Hope you weren’t too put out having that brought here.”

Ross shrugs. “You’re doing me a favour, the least I could do is make sure you have something to brace yourself on.” A pause. “I have cuffs, if…”

“No, thank you,” Edward demurs. “I’ll hold still.” He glances at the table, and the black case laid open on top of it. “Mind if I look?”

“Go ahead,” Ross says. “If there’s something you object to, let me know. Otherwise, it’ll be audience choice.”

Edward nods. Approaches the table, looks down at the equipment. “All of this is fine.” Closes his mouth, considers his words. Corrects himself. “Any of this is fine.”

Behind him, Ross chuckles. “I’ve got the room for the rest of the hour. If Henry focuses instead of talking, we can get through most of that.”

Edward hovers his hand over the bullwhip at the end of the table. Hesitates. “This one for sure,” he says, finally. “In case the audience dictates a slower pace.”

“You might be surprised,” Ross says. “But I’ll make sure I pull that one out at the end. What do I need to watch for with you?”

“Just my hands,” Edward says. “If I lower them, I need a moment, and I’ll raise them again when I’m ready. I’ll step away from the cross if I need to. I don’t need a warmup, and I have a high pain tolerance. I’m quiet during, and that’s not indicative of a problem. No health issues, no medical issues. No need to acknowledge me while you’re teaching—not an objectification thing, it’s just—meditative. If you do, my last name is fine.” He looks at the cross, looks back at the implements. “If you were looking for someone who can verbalize what they’re feeling…”

“Not necessary,” Ross says. “Sophy and the boys are looking for a demonstration and rundown of technique more than anything—sorry, is that going to be a problem?”

Edward shakes his head, tries to clear up whatever his face is doing that Ross has noticed. “No, I just—I met Miss Cracroft a few minutes ago, didn’t realize she was going to be here. It’s fine.” He grimaces, wishes he’d kept his mouth shut or conducted himself more gracefully. (Longs for the point where he feels clear in his own mind again.) “As I’m sure Jopson said, this will settle me. It doesn’t matter who’s there.”

“Alright,” Ross says. “They’re on their way over—grab yourself a bottle of water from the table there, do what you need to do to get ready.”

Edward nods.

Thinks of Jopson.

⛓️

The conference room is much cooler than the dungeon was, and Edward can feel goosebumps on his bare back. He shifts his feet, carefully places the toes of his boots against the lower ends of the cross. Jopson’s handkerchief is tucked deep into his pocket. Jopson’s blindfold—his own blindfold, the one he uses when he submits, the one Edward will put on him during some undisclosed and as-of-yet-unplanned future time—is held in his hands, and Edward looks down at it for a moment before raising it to his own eyes, and fastening it around his head.

(The blindfold smells of Jopson—of leather, and the faint scent of cigars, and the smell of his skin and soap. It’s made to fit Jopson’s face, and thus doesn’t quite fit Edward correctly, but it was lent to him out of affection. Affection, and a desire for Edward to carry part of Jopson with him through this experience. After they’re done here, Edward is going to go back to the merch hall. He’s going to crowd Jopson up against the closest surface, he’s going to—he’s going to make space for them tonight, and he’s going to mark Jopson’s neck as it deserves to be marked, so that Jopson goes back to England knowing that he is Edward’s, and Edward is his, and all will be well.)

The ends of the blindfold cover his ears, muffling sound—an ingenious invention, and one that Edward will take advantage of when he uses it with Jopson, but for now, he shifts the straps upward so that he can still hear. Crosses his arms above his body, rests his forehead on his wrists. He can hear Ross and Miss Cracroft talking quietly to each other behind him and to his right, and Gore and Le Vesconte looking through the implements directly behind him. Glances down at the gap at the bottom of the blindfold—a gap that won’t be there on Jopson, when the straps are in the right position and the blindfold is fitted to his face—at his own boots, still beautifully polished. Shifts his toes back a fraction from the base of the cross so that he doesn’t scuff them.

“Well,” Ross is saying. “Come have a seat. Sophy—where would you like to start?”

“The Florentine, please, James,” Miss Cracroft says.

“Four-point, or six?”

“Both,” Gore suggests. “Start with the four, Dundy will need it. Then you can move onto the six for the rest of us.”

“Very funny,” Le Vesconte mutters.

Ross chuckles. “Little—are you ready?”

Edward shifts his hand, gives a thumbs-up. Focuses on his breathing.

“Alright,” Ross says, with the easy patter of someone who teaches extensively, and could give a presentation in their sleep. “You’ll note—a matched set of floggers, weighted exactly the same. Grip like so. These are slightly longer falls, so I’m able to stand a bit further back. Watch carefully—this is the pattern that you’ll want to imitate. Yes? Alright, this is how it’ll sound when properly executed.”

Edward breathes in slowly—exhales when the falls start to thud rhythmically against his shoulders, the steady _ONE-two-three-four ONE-two-three-four_ immediately calming him. It’s not as fast as Tozer’s fists—like sinking down slowly into a warm bath instead of the glorious brilliance of a bar fight—but it’s enough sensation that he can feel the burrs at the edges of his mind start to slowly work their way out.

“This is the transition to six-point,” Ross is saying behind him.

 _ONE-two-three-four, ONE-two-three-FOUR-five-six, ONE-two-three-FOUR-five-six_ —

“It changes the rhythm, and it also changes the number of points of contact. So, now that I’ve set the pattern here—I can start modifying the intensity, like so.”

The flogger thumps down, hard, on Edward’s left shoulder and his mind finally, blissfully, goes blank.

⛓️

The water’s gone to room temperature by the time they’re finished, but Edward drains the bottle gratefully anyway. Rolls his shoulders, and then picks up his shirt, pulls it back over his head. His back is warm, his body is humming with endorphins, and his brain is mercifully quiet. It’s the best he’s felt all day, and he’s got Jopson to thank for that.

Well, Jopson, and James Clark Ross.

Edward reaches into his back pocket, tugs Jopson’s handkerchief out so it’s visible again, makes sure that the blindfold is securely tucked into his other pocket, and heads toward the table where Ross and Miss Cracroft are chatting. (Edward’s not entirely certain how she’s able to hold a conversation when she’s cinched in that tightly, but maybe Jopson is able to tighten a corset in a way where it doesn’t impede speech or breath.)

Ross looks up as Edward approaches. “All right, Little?”

“Perfect,” Edward says. “Thank you.”

Ross grins at him. “I think you owe Jopson those thanks.”

“He’ll be properly thanked,” Edward says. “Miss Cracroft, it was lovely to see you again.”

“Likewise,” she says warmly.

Edward nods, turns to leave. Gore and Le Vesconte are deep in conversation closer to the back of the room. Gore glances over at Edward, but Edward just ducks his head, slips out the door before he gets trapped in any other conversations. Runs his hand back through his hair as he leaves the convention space, crosses the lobby to head back up to the hotel room. That way, he can shower and change his clothes before he goes back to visit with Jopson. There was a point where he thought he might want to have a nap, but post-flogging, he actually feels really good. Feels focused, feels alive.

God, he owes Jopson such elaborate thanks. Maybe they can negotiate that fucking this afternoon, if isn’t too busy with customers and they both keep their voices down. Edward wants to give Jopson exactly what he wants, exactly how he wants it. Wants Jopson to fall apart underneath him again, wants to take him over and over and over. Maybe once against the wall, and then again on the bed. Maybe in the shower as well, with steam all around them. Smiling, Edward reaches for the keycard to his room, opens the door.

“—knew you were a filthy little cockslut, fucking dying for it all weekend—get your fucking hand out of your pants, you’ll beg for it first—”

Edward stares at Tozer’s bare arse until his brain kicks into gear, and then he sighs and steps back out of the hotel room.

Back to merch it is, and thank fuck both Tozer and Irving had been too preoccupied to notice the interruption.

⛓️

“Didn’t shower,” Edward says.

Jopson looks up from his phone, mouth quirking into a smile. “I feel as though there’s more context to that than what I currently have.” He nods to the chair next to him, which definitely hadn’t been there before. “Sit down. How was it?”

Edward bends down, presses his lips against Jopson’s shoulder. “Session with Ross was great,” he says. God, it’s good to see Jopson again. It’s been no more than an hour or two, and it feels as though it’s been ages. He carefully notes everything from Jopson’s hair, perfectly styled, to the bright blue-green of his eyes, the amusement dancing around his mouth, the way he carefully covers the screen of his phone with his hand rather than flipping it over.

Jopson waits for Edward to sit and then leans into him, his head resting on Edward’s shoulder. “What’d he use on you?”

Edward thinks back. “Couple sets of floggers, signal whip, bullwhip.”

Jopson lifts his head. “…can I see?”

Edward blinks at him. “Right here?”

“Yes,” Jopson says, eyes bright. “It’s a kink convention. People are shirtless all the time.”

Edward lowers his voice. “You sure about that, pet? What if you’re overwhelmed completely?”

Jopson grins, showing his teeth. “Well, try me.”

Edward flashes him a quick smile in return, stands up. Reaches over his head and tugs his shirt off, drops it onto the chair. Notes the way Jopson’s eyes go immediately to his nipples. Imagines Jopson’s mouth on one of gold bars, tongue flicking at the ball end, tugging at it with his teeth, his fingers on Edward’s other nipple. His skin feels warm.

Edward turns, stretches his arms up in the air, rolls his shoulders. Stares idly at the end of the merch hall, rocking on the balls of his feet a little. Shivers when Jopson’s fingertips go to the bottom of his right shoulderblade, trace upwards.

“I can’t believe you mark this intensely,” Jopson says softly. “I’d kill for this.”

Edward rolls his eyes even though Jopson can’t see. “You really wouldn’t,” he says. “I’ll be black and blue tomorrow.”

“Mmm,” Jopson says. “Yes, you will be.” His other hand is on Edward’s back now too, carefully tracing small circles over his other shoulderblade. “These circular bruises…?”

“Some kind of a multi-tailed flogger,” Edward says. “Little polished leather cord knots on the ends? Punches like a son of a—er, it’s a fairly sharp sting.”

“Looks like he did a number on your back.” Jopson swallows audibly. “Wish I could have seen it.”

“Well,” Edward says. He wants to turn around, wants to touch Jopson’s face, touch his hips. Wants to do—something, anything, but he doesn’t want to deprive Jopson the opportunity to look either. “You can watch back home, if you like. Whatever I’m involved in.”

Jopson chuckles under his breath. “You’ll let me watch Tozer beat you up?”

Edward gives into temptation, reaches behind himself and captures Jopson’s wrist in his, rubs at the tendons with his thumbs. “Yeah,” Edward says. “You wanna watch us fight, you can.”

“I’d like that a lot,” Jopson says. He exhales. “Better put your shirt back on.”

“Well, and here I thought you weren’t going to get overwhelmed,” Edward teases. Turns around and picks his shirt up, puts it on.

Jopson’s still looking at him, expression thoughtful.

“What?” Edward asks.

“Nothing,” Jopson says quickly. He sits back down in his chair and pushes his hair back, exposing his ears briefly. They’ve gone pink. “Just thinking about later, that’s all.”

“About that,” Edward says.

“Hold that thought,” Jopson says. “Bridgens is sending someone over, he just made eye contact.”

Edward tugs his chair a bit closer to the wall, out of the way, and sits back down to watch Jopson work.

⛓️

Jopson’s throat moves as he swallows, eyes dancing with amusement. He sets his water down, holding it steady between his thighs.

Edward leans back in his chair, lets his knees fall open. “It’s funny, is it?”

Jopson wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never had anybody ask how many minutes of prep I needed before, that’s all.”

“I just think—”

“No, no, don’t get me wrong, I’m not offended.”

“You’re not offended,” Edward says. He splays his hand on his thigh, taps his fingers. Considers Jopson’s expression. “But you’re surprised. You’ve never broken it down in minutes before?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jopson says. It’s more than just his ears that are pink now—his cheeks look warm too, even after downing half a bottle of cold water at once. He shifts his legs, stretching them out under the table.

“So you’ll give me an answer,” Edward suggests, watching the way Jopson arches and flexes his feet under the table. He hadn’t given Jopson that massage yesterday, and wonders if Jopson would accept it today, if he offered. His thumbs on Jopson’s arches, his fingers caressing Jopson’s ankle.

“There are…extenuating circumstances today,” Jopson says carefully. He crosses his ankles under the table, uncrosses and recrosses them. “So any numbers I give you wouldn’t be relevant.”

Edward shifts his chair to the side, just a bit. He’s seated closer to the wall than he is to the table—it’s only polite, this isn’t his booth, he’s here by Jopson’s invitation, and it’s a wonder Jopson allows this because he’s sure the bruise under his eye is something, considering how the cashier had stared when he’d bought coffee for them earlier—and the new angle gives him a better view of Jopson’s legs, the way he’s got them stretched out under the table. As Edward watches, Jopson points his toe again, tapping it against a small black box underneath the table. The box is at odds with everything else under there—first of all, it’s significantly smaller than the white banker’s boxes that are stacked under there to begin with. Second of all, it’s sticking out the top of the messenger bag that Edward assumes is Jopson’s, which is strange because there’s no reason for it to be sticking out unless Jopson wanted him to—

Edward swallows.

Glances down the hall to one of the booths closer to the door. It’s selling sex toys, and is notable in that it’s the only booth in the hall that sells their merch packed into little black boxes. Edward’s eyes drop back to the box again, and then drag up Jopson’s legs. Notes the way Jopson is sitting, his hips tilted just slightly on the chair. Not the way he usually sits, then. Edward keeps his eyes there deliberately for a moment, then flicks his gaze upward, meets Jopson’s eyes.

Jopson winks at him.

Edward exhales. Runs his hand back through his hair.

“Like I said,” Jopson says softly. “Extenuating circumstances that render the question of prep meaningless.”

“Not meaningless,” Edward says.

“Well…”

“I get your point, though.”

“That’s good,” Jopson says calmly. “You’ll have to let me know when I can get yours.”

Edward swallows, glances across the hall. Tozer’s booth is still closed, and god help him if he needs to venture up to the hotel room again. (He’ll negotiate with Tozer through the damn door if he has to.) If he texts Tozer, it’s as good as acknowledging that Edward is aware the booth isn’t open at present, which will beg the question of why Edward hasn’t opened it, and he doesn’t particularly want to get into the whole Hickey situation if he doesn’t have to, so maybe he’ll just—

“Failing that,” Jopson says. “You should tell me about the shower thing.”

Edward glances at him.

“You still smell nice, I’d never have guessed you hadn’t showered.”

Edward chuckles, rubs his knuckles against his cheek. “Well. I’d planned to detour, change clothes after Ross. You know, good hot shower, clear out any remaining cobwebs.”

“Mmmhmm,” Jopson says, his eyes going a bit vacant. He shifts a bit on his chair, and it almost looks like an accident, except then he does it again. And again.

Edward reaches out, puts his hand on Jopson’s thigh without thinking about it. Jopson stops moving, looks at Edward.

Edward opens his mouth, but everything in his head is possessive, and he shuts it again without saying anything. Now that he’s thought about it, he’s just fixated on Jopson’s neck again, right where he’s been all weekend, and tonight is the night he’s going to finally _do_ something about it.

“Sorry,” Jopson says, face the picture of innocence, even though he’s going a touch pink. “Am I distracting you? I’m just getting comfortable.”

“Not distracted,” Edward says, voice low. “Just taking note of what you like when you’ve got something up your arse, that’s all.” He pats Jopson’s thigh, and then takes his hand back, withdraws back into his own space. “By all means, keep grinding on it.”

Jopson is definitely blushing now.

 _Good_ , Edward thinks. “So, the shower. I went up to the hotel room, figuring, ah. You know. Strip naked, step under the water, all that. And that’s what you should imagine, because I opened the door to our room, and...well, yeah. I’m here.”

Jopson chuckles. Puts the back of his hand to his cheeks, one after the other, like he’ll be able to cool himself down that way. “You’re here, and your booth is shut. That related? Because there was a _fascinating_ conversation happening over there just after you left to see Ross.”

Edward raises his eyebrows. “First of all, it isn’t _my_ booth.” Then he thinks about all the money he’s thrown at it over the years, and the number of hours he’s spent packing things up, unpacking, dealing with shipping, funding merch orders, and pretty much anything else that comes up. “I just help out.” Takes a deep breath, tries to figure out how to explain it to Jopson. “Tozer’s a bit younger than me,” he says, finally. “Same age as my little brother. So, you know. I try to keep him away from the Hickeys of the world, which, as you can see, has been gloriously successful.”

“Can’t prevent people from making bad choices,” Jopson says mildly.

“Apparently not,” Edward says. “Anyway, so. I take it your fascinating conversation was between Tozer and Irving?”

Jopson grins at him. “It _was_ , as a matter of fact. I’m quite put out, though, Tozer didn’t have the decency to face my direction, and he was the one doing most of the talking after Irving’s initial assertion that his talk today was—and I quote— _unclear_.”

Edward tilts his head, glances over at the booth. Considers the distance across the hall, and the general volume at which he’s heard Irving speak. “You read lips.”

Jopson beams. “It’s a useful skill to have.”

Edward considers. “Irving definitely said today’s talk? I know he was in the military kink one Tozer did yesterday.”

“Oh, I bet that one’s good,” Jopson says. “But no, he distinctly said today. So I looked it up in the program.”

“And?”

“Humiliation talk,” Jopson says proudly. “So I’m guessing that’s a thing, based on the body language and what I could see from Irving.”

Edward sighs. “It also explains the stream-of-consciousness filth that was coming out of Tozer’s mouth when I opened the hotel room door.”

Jopson grins. “You got an eyeful?”

“Mostly Tozer’s arse, and I’ve seen it before,” Edward says. “I don’t think either of them noticed me, though, so if you could do me a favour and not mention it ever, that’d be swell.”

Jopson puts his hand on his heart. “I’ll take your secret with me to the grave.” Leans toward Edward, lowers his voice. “Look like they were having fun, though?”

Edward rolls his eyes. “Apparently so, yes. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it on the flight home tomorrow.”

“You’ll have to keep me updated,” Jopson says seriously.

Edward raises his eyebrows. “Like to know things about people, do you?”

“I’m just curious,” Jopson says, eyes wide. “Aren’t you curious, Edward?”

“All of my curiosity,” Edward says, leaning forward, “is currently devoted to thinking about what you might like to do once merch closes tonight.”

“Oh,” Jopson says, “I can think of a few things.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Edward asks.

“Hmm?”

“Start talking, pet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Notes:** multiple mentions of bruising | top drop | anxiety | more internalized kinkshaming | “good boy” used as a term of endearment for Jopson | platonic flogging | accidental/unintentional voyeurism | 
> 
> **~~~THE END NOTES~~~**
> 
> **Misc Observational Notes:** Okay, so there’s really no squinting required for the Tozer/Irving in this chapter. I’m glad they’re having a nice weekend.
> 
> Always, Edward ‘too many emails’ Little confirmed. Too many emails, not nearly enough thirsting over James Clark Ross in jeans. Come on, Edward. Get your priorities in order.
> 
> I want in on the group texts happening this weekend, also. I feel a little bad for the barrage that I'm sure Francis is receiving, but honestly, that was his fault for opting out of this convention at the last minute.
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Chapter five, _Aftercare_ , goes up next Friday!! It's the last chapter!! But there's more works in the series so don't worry!!!
> 
> If you'd like to read more, there's a [behind-the-scenes post on Tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/post/616302435006283776/closer-chapter-four-kink-bonus-features)!
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula) and on [tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/) and [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/heyktula).
> 
> My sincerest thanks to [Autumn](/users/for_autumn_i_am/), who beta read and is also deep in her Tozer feelings. I also owe a great deal to [Deadsy](/users/deadsy/), who copyedited and who has a special connection with my brain, and to [Asher_Ephraim](/users/Asher_Ephraim/), who confirmed my words were words and who is now watching The Terror.


	5. Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where’m I s’posed to stay then, huh? Alright, yeah, I can...sure. Except, what if I can only get one of them upscale ones? And what if...yeah, okay. That does help. I mean, unless—alright, Ed, sure. Yeah. You owe me a favour, though.”
> 
> Or, the one where Edward really had no idea how much an AirBnB cost, and Tozer came out of that conversation much richer than he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, huh?
> 
> Last chapter.
> 
> Notes are at the end!

The lift doors slide shut, and Edward turns sharply to manhandle Thomas up against the back wall, jolting Thomas’ breath out of him in a pleased huff.

“You alright?” Edward murmurs into his neck. His thigh is between Thomas’ legs, and his hands are pinning Thomas’ wrists back.

“Never better,” Thomas says, tilting his hips and letting his weight be supported by Edward. He can’t quite get pressure on the base of the plug this way, but he’s goddamn close, and it hardly matters, not when Edward is breathing onto his neck, mouth open. Not when Edward’s gloved hands are pressing him against the wall, Edward’s exposed fingers curling around to caress the veins on the underside of his wrists. “Never packed up a booth so fast in my life.”

“Would have been faster if you hadn’t kissed me in the car park,” Edward grumbles.

“You were looking—oh, hell—eminently kissable.”

God, Edward’s weight on him like this is glorious. He’s leaning in with steady pressure, shifting his weight from side to side like he’s testing on the bruises on Thomas’ body. Thomas’ eyes flick to the floor indicator, and he watches the numbers go up. The wet point of Edward’s tongue is lapping at his jugular. Thomas is considering the merits of trying to free his hands so that he can get Edward’s belt undone, but there are only so many floors in this hotel and—

The lift dings, and Edward steps smartly away from Thomas, shifting his hands up to Thomas’ arms to steady him as he suddenly has to support his own weight again. Thomas is lightheaded with it, and he lets Edward pull him out of the lift, laughing.

They’re going to fuck.

Finally.

He first set eyes on Edward just over fifty hours ago, and now they’re going to fuck, and then they’re going to catch a flight back to London, where they both live, and they’re going to keep fucking and—

“This way,” Edward says. His voice is gruff, but his eyes are warm, and he can’t stop _looking_ at Thomas. “Room’s at the end of the hall.”

“Alright,” Thomas says. Damn, Edward looks good like this—focused and driven and he hasn’t stopped touching Thomas, not once. Thomas can still taste Edward’s too-sweet coffee on his tongue, because Edward is the kind of person that drains his coffee before he throws the cup out, even if he’d forgotten hours ago and it’d gone room-temperature. Thomas had kissed the grimace off his face, and—

“Got something for you, if you want it,” Edward says.

“Oh?”

“Collar,” he says, looking at Thomas sidelong as they walk briskly down the hall. “I’d like to haul you around a bit once we get into the room. Safer with a collar, if you—”

“Yes,” Thomas says. It comes out louder than he means to, and he doesn’t even care, repeats it softer anyways. “Yes, please, Sir.”

“Good,” Edward says. “Right, perfect, I—yes.” He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, pulls out the keycard and squints at it, looks at the room number. “Sorry, two more down.”

Thomas nods. He’s half-convinced he imagined Edward’s cock last night, all hopped up on endorphins and wrapped in a warm fuzzy blanket of subspace, and there’s really no losing here—either he did imagine it, and he gets to discover Edward’s cock all over again, or his memory is very, very accurate, and he gets to play with that glorious thing a second time.

(The slight ache in his throat that’s persisted throughout the day indicates that he hasn’t embellished a single thing, and the thought makes him warm all over, like he would have had to keep his shirt slightly unbuttoned just for comfort even if he wasn’t deliberately doing it to make sure Edward is thinking about him.)

Thomas glances down the hall, confirms no one is there, and then takes a step in closer to Edward as Edward brings the keycard to the lock. Molds his body up against Edward’s, sliding his hands into Edward’s front pockets, because he thinks he might be able to—

Edward stills, leans his forehead on the closed door, his breath catching.

“Do you usually dress to the right, or is that just today?” Thomas wiggles his fingers, presses his right hand a little harder into Edward’s pocket, where he can feel not just the firm length of Edward’s cock, but also the barbells of the piercings, and oh, god, he didn’t misremember this at all. His mouth is dry. He wants to kneel right here, get Edward’s trousers undone, open his—

There’s a click as the hotel room door comes open. Edward’s hand grips Thomas’ wrist firmly.

“In,” he growls. “No handjobs before the trousers are off, pet.”

Thomas shivers, pulls his hand out of Edward’s pocket. “Yes, sir.” His hands go to his own shirt to start undoing the buttons as he steps inside, takes stock of the room. It’s similar to the room he and Blanky are in—two beds, one desk, a minifridge and a coffee machine. Light grey carpet, dark grey drapes that are still pulled tight, leaving the room itself dim except for the light pouring out of the bathroom. The bed closest to the door is unmade, while the one next to the window has—

“Far bed is mine,” Edward says, stepping into the bathroom and turning on the tap. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

—the covers pulled up, the pillow placed on top. It looks like a nice bed, a comfortable bed. There’s a battered paperback book on the endtable, and Thomas slips off his shoes, crosses the room to look at the cover of the book. Asimov’s _Foundation_. Ned is about halfway through it.

Thomas touches the cover. It’s soft from use, the edges of the pages almost furry in the way that well-loved books get after they’ve been carted around for a while. He walks around the bed, flicks on the lamp. Considers opening the drapes—but his own room looks out onto the car park, and he’d rather not ruin the romanticism of Edward’s by confirming the same. He presses his hand into the cushion of the chair by the window—not bad for comfort, and an odd-enough shape that it might present some interesting challenges for fucking. He turns as the tap shuts off and watches Ned come out of the bathroom, tugging his half-gloves back on over—

“Wait,” Thomas says.

Ned looks up at him. “Hmm?”

“Your hands,” Thomas says, abandoning his buttons to cross the room and take Edward’s hand in his. His hand is absolutely freezing, like he’s been running it under cold water, and as Thomas carefully eases the leather half-glove off, it’s very obvious as to why. “They’re swollen.”

Edward makes a disgruntled noise.

“Last night?”

“Usually use sap gloves,” Edward says gruffly. “It’s nothing.”

Thomas presses his lips to the back of Edward’s hand anyway, and then drags his tongue over the bruised knuckles, ending in a soft kiss on the side of his hand. “You should have said. Do you want the gloves back on for support?”

Edward is still scowling, and it’s far more charming than it should be. He rocks on the balls of his feet a moment, and then gives Thomas one of those looks that makes Thomas feel exposed, completely, even though he’s still dressed.

“Said I’d like to manhandle you a bit,” Edward says. His eyes are fixed on the bit of sternum Thomas’ open shirt is exposing. “Meant it.” He holds out his bare hand.

Thomas nods, slides the leather half-glove back onto Edward’s hand, conscious of how close Edward is standing to him. (Conscious of the fact that they’re finally _alone_.) Conscious of the way Edward ducks his head to smell Thomas’ neck.

“Better get that shirt off,” Edward says, voice low. “I’d like to wrestle you over to the closet, get that collar on.”

Thomas shudders. It’s the good feeling, that one he gets at the top of a rollercoaster, right before the descent. They’re standing close enough that when he brings his hands back to his shirt, his knuckles brush up against Edward’s stomach. Edward is breathing into his neck, still, his hands up on Thomas’ shoulders, thumbs rubbing his collarbone. (He wonders, briefly, what Edward’s stance is on breathplay—but they’ll have London after this, and the question can wait.) Thomas untucks his shirt, unbuttons the final two buttons, and then his trousers as well. He has half a mind to just strip everything off here, while Edward is still engrossed with his neck—but they’ll only be naked in front of each other for the first time once.

“Here,” Thomas says softly. Reaches up and takes Edward’s wrists in his own, and then takes a step back, making a larger space between them. “Look.”

Edward looks. Swallows. Exhales. “Fuck me,” he says, voice gone quiet.

“Left my dicks back in London,” Thomas says, deadpan. He’s looking at Edward when he says it, trying to gauge the look on his face.

(He’s pretty sure Edward’s eyes dilate. He’s more sure of it when Ned’s gaze comes up and meets Thomas’ own. Edward is chewing on his lower lip again, that same look of concentration he gets when he’s thinking about something, and he’s breathing heavily. His hands, where they rest on Thomas’ shoulders, are shaking, just a bit. He’s so handsome that it’s nearly enough to stop Thomas’ heart completely.)

“And you switch, too,” Edward breathes. “God.” He flattens his hand on Thomas’ shoulder, drags it slowly down his bare chest, easing Thomas’ shirt down with it. “How did I get so lucky? Look at you.”

“Please,” Thomas says, his voice shaking. He can feel his body breaking out in goosebumps where Edward is touching him, feels dizzy with want. He takes a deep breath, tries to pull himself together, and accidentally clenches on the plug, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. “Look at me.”

Edward lets go of Thomas’ shirt. His mouth twists a moment later, and he bends, picks the shirt up from the floor, shakes it out. Drapes it on the back of the chair at the desk, and studies Thomas’ bare chest again. “How sore are you?”

“Pleasantly,” Thomas says. God, he wants to collapse into Edward’s arms. Let Edward manhandle him back against the closet, collar him and throw him on the bed—but he also wants this, Edward Little eye-fucking him and staring at his body like he can’t get enough of Thomas, like he’s trying to document everything he can see, all the marks Edward left on him last night.

“Good,” Edward says. He puts both hands on Thomas’ chest this time, pressing at the bruises.

“Oh,” Thomas says, as pain blossoms slowly under Ned’s fingers, sending pleasure winding through his torso and settling low in his stomach. “ _Sir._ ”

“That’s right,” Edward says softly. “You can handle this. You can handle what I’m doing to you. What I’m going to do to you.” He swallows, eyes dropping lower now, to the place where Thomas’ trousers are undone, and splayed open. “Do you want to—can you—” He closes his eyes, visibly swallows.

“I’m not scared,” Thomas says. “Tell me what you want. I’m not scared of what you’ll say.”

Edward’s eyes snap open. He blinks, narrows his eyes, looking at Thomas’ face like he’s trying to discern whether or not Thomas is telling the truth—but, oh, Thomas has never said anything more true in his life.

Edward inhales raggedly. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Nods.

Thomas drops his hands to the waistband of his trousers. Looks at Edward. “Sir?”

“Strip,” Edward says, voice raw.

“Gladly,” Thomas replies, and he pushes his trousers down, steps out of them. Reaches down and tugs his socks off, too. Glances up at Edward, who has his hands interlaced behind his head and is staring at Thomas’ legs.

“Keep going,” Edward rasps. His black trousers don’t hide a damn thing. The entire length of his cock is visible, jutting up against the leather, but he’s not touching himself, or making any move to adjust it. He’s just standing there, watching Thomas.

Thomas nods, clenches on the plug, and slides his boxer-briefs down. He’s dizzy with it—lust, and want, and desire, and something else that he should be afraid of, because it’s been hardly any time at all, and it’s too early for love—but, oh, Thomas is absolutely going to sink into this, because with the depth of emotion he sees reflected in Edward’s eyes, he thinks that he’s not the only one feeling it.

He knows he’s not alone.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” Edward breathes. “Christ, look at you.”

Thomas shivers. He’s _seen_ , and Edward is reacting like _this_.

(He loves it. Wants this, always.)

He steps forward and reaches for Edward’s shirt. Tugs it out of his trousers and rucks it up to his armpits, pausing only to run his fingertips over the gold bars through Edward’s nipples. “I like these.”

“…good,” Edward says, voice slightly strangled. “Me too.”

He leans in closer, and kisses Edward’s lips softly, feeling the rings and studs press against his own. Thomas opens his mouth, presses his tongue forward when Edward responds in kind, whines when his tongue touches the ball of Edward’s tongue piercing. Brings one hand up to Edward’s ear to drag his fingers across the hoops there, and puts his other hand on Edward’s side, presses it down toward the waistband of his trousers before flattening it, sliding his fingertips in.

“Fuck,” Edward whispers when Thomas closes his fingers around Edward’s cock. “ _Tom_.”

“I want this inside me,” Thomas says. He can feel the ladder piercings pressing into his hand, and he tightens his grip. “The whole thing. All the metal. The whole length. I want you to pull out my plug, stretch me open the rest of the way on your cock.” He swallows. God, he’s turned on right now. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this—except, of course, last night. “Fuck me hard. After I come…”

“After I _make_ you come,” Edward breathes.

Thomas exhales, tries to gather his thoughts. He wants Edward’s thigh between his legs, wants something to grind on. Wants Edward’s fingers feeling out the base of the plug, teasing him with it. Wants everything, wants to lose the rest of the evening to sheer bliss, to the intensity of Edward fucking him well and thoroughly.

“Finish your sentence,” Edward murmurs. His teeth are ghosting over the shell of Thomas’ ear. His hands are on Thomas’ back, pressing on all the bruises from yesterday, sending spikes of pleasure through his body.

“Can’t,” Thomas says. “Forgot.” He shudders when Edward presses down on a particular tender spot, shivers when Edward chuckles in his ear.

“Collar time,” Edward says. He shifts his hands to Thomas’ arms, squeezes, and starts manhandling him backward.

Thomas melts into it, lets Edward steer him up against the closet. Gasps when Edward pushes him up against it, laughs when he tips his head back and the back of his head collides with Edward’s hand, because of course Edward’s hand is there, of course Thomas won’t get hurt unintentionally, of course—

And then Edward’s thigh is between Thomas’ legs, and the shock of pleasure nearly takes Thomas’ legs out from underneath him completely.

“Relax into me,” Edward is saying. “I’ve got you, pet.”

Thomas tilts his hips, rubs against the leather of Edward’s trousers. Fuck, he’s got nice legs—solid thighs—he could get himself off like this, get himself off while he’s completely naked and Edward is still mostly dressed, get himself off just on the press of Edward’s thigh alone—

“Kneel,” Edward says, and he steps back.

(The hotel carpet is rough on his knees, and Thomas’ head is spinning, his heart is pounding.)

He can smell the leather from here. Not just the leather. He’s kneeling by Edward’s thigh, and it smells of warm leather, and it smells—it smells of _him_ , and he wonders if Edward can smell it too, wonders if—

And then Edward is kneeling too, holding out a thick leather collar, and it’s one of Blanky’s, it’s the collar that Thomas had done the finishing work on during the plane ride over and he’s not sure if he’s going to laugh or cry of joy but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all, because—

“There you are, pet.”

—Edward’s hands are wrapping the collar around his neck, and Edward’s fingers are feeding the straps through the buckles, because Edward is checking the tightness, because Edward is asking him if he can breathe, and he can, he can, and everything else is fading, everything else is fading because he’s looking into Edward’s warm brown eyes, and—

“Mine,” Edward says, sliding his hand around to the front and tugging on the ring mounted to the front of the collar. “ _Mine_.”

“Yes,” Thomas breathes, and he submits.

Completely.

* * *

“Fuck,” Edward murmurs into Jopson’s chest. He’s so hard it hurts, and his mind is a mess of the possibilities of everything they could do—all the things Edward wants, all the things Jopson wants, everything discussed earlier, whispered tones in the middle of the merch hall; enough activities to keep them in bed a full week, and, oh, Edward _wants_. “What am I going to do with you?”

Jopson chuckles, grinds down against Edward’s trousers. “Fuck me, Sir,” he suggests.

Edward sucks a bruising kiss right below Jopson’s collarbone, finishes it with a sharp bite that makes Jopson gasp. They’re in the chair in the corner of the room. Jopson is naked on Edward’s lap, the hard base of the plug a solid pressure on Edward’s thigh. His arms rest on Edward’s bare shoulders, and his blindfolded face is tipped to the ceiling exposing his neck, framed by the thick black collar.

(The collar is one of the best ideas Edward has had this weekend.)

Edward shifts his hands, grips Jopson’s bare arse tight enough to bruise, pulls Jopson against his cock while he tilts his hips off the chair, grinds up into him. “All those things you told me,” Edward says, voice low. “And you want to skip right to being fucked?”

Jopson shudders, rests his face on Edward’s shoulder as a full-body tremor goes through him. “Seems—best idea, Sir.”

Edward chuckles. Lets go of Jopson with his left hand, curls his fingers into a fist and smacks Jopson sharply, right in the fleshy part of his arse.

(The blindfold is the second-best idea, because as long as Edward remembers to bite down on his own tongue first to muffle his breathing, Jopson can’t see him wince when his fist connects. His hands are pretty fucked, even with the half-gloves bracing them, but it doesn’t matter because this night is going to be phenomenal for Jopson. If Edward’s hands are too painful for him to button his trousers tomorrow, he’ll just untuck his shirt and it won’t matter.)

He shifts his right hand underneath Jopson’s arse, deliberately jostles the base of the plug. Regrets that he didn’t get lube out prior to sitting down here—but when he brings the fingers of his other hand to Jopson’s mouth, Jopson sucks on them obediently, and Edward bites down on his own tongue a little harder, the pain reminding him to focus on Jopson instead of on his own cock.

(Fuck, though, he could stand up right now, toss Jopson on the bed, remove the plug and instantly replace it with his cock, fuck them both to completion with Jopson thrashing in pleasure underneath him. Maybe next time he will. Maybe next time, he’ll pin Jopson to the wall and make him come until he can’t stand, then throw him down into a mess of pillows, fuck him against the sheets while sunlight streams into the flat.)

“Gonna get the plug out,” he says gruffly.

Jopson rises up on his knees when Edward reaches for the base of the plug, gently eases it out while he tucks his spit-slick fingers underneath. Someday, he’ll do this with Jopson bent over something—Edward’s dining table, perhaps, or his desk, or one of the chairs from the living room hauled into the sunroom so that the sunlight glances off Jopson’s hair, reflecting back the bright glint of his eyes—and he’ll do it slowly, achingly slowly, telling Jopson the entire time how gorgeous his arse is, how perfect he looks, how he’s the best pet anyone could ever ask for. But for now—for now, Edward carefully removes the plug, going slowly to account for the hours Jopson has spent with it inside him.

“Please,” Jopson begs, leaning heavily against Edward. “Please, please. Sir.”

“I’ve got you,” Edward says. The resistance on the plug gives, all at once, as the thickest part of it comes out, and Edward presses the knuckles of his other hand against Jopson’s hole, massages it gently as he eases the plug out from between them, sets it aside.

“We need lube,” Edward says softly. “And I need a condom for later. Gonna lift you, alright?”

“Yeah,” Jopson says breathlessly, wrapping his arms around Edward’s neck.

It’s an awkward shift—it’d be easier if Jopson was shorter, but he’s gloriously not, so there’s a moment where they’re both arms and legs and misbalanced bodies—but then Edward is standing, and he’s got Jopson’s legs wrapped around his waist, and it’s just as good as it was last night in the dungeon—no, it’s better, because now Jopson is deliberately grinding down on Edward’s dick, and Edward is letting him, because later they’re going to fuck, and there’s more foreplay right now besides, as long as Edward remembers where the fuck he put the lube. Or if he has lube. Fuck, did he even bring lube. He definitely brought condoms. He brought—

“Need to check my suitcase,” he manages.

“I can go,” Jopson offers. Unwraps his legs from Edward’s waist, takes a step back. There’s a half-smile on his face and even though the blindfold covers them completely, Edward can imagine exactly the mischievous look in his eyes. “Only, I’ll need direction.”

“Of course you will,” Edward says. He nods at the carpet, then remembers Jopson can’t see it. “Kneel.”

Jopson drops to his knees, and then forward onto all fours, and Edward squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He’s going to stay exactly where he is. He’s going to play this scene out to the fullest. He’s going to make sure this is something Jopson never forgets. He’s going to delay this all night if he has to—

—he opens his eyes, and Jopson is naked, on all fours, waiting for him.

“Fuck it,” Edward says, and he drops to his knees. “Stay there, I’m coming to you.”

⛓️

His tongue is up Jopson’s arse. His face is wet and all he can taste is Jopson, Jopson and a slight hint of the vanilla-flavoured lube he used, artificial falseness underneath the tang of everything else. Jopson is sitting on his face, his thighs clenched tight around Edward’s ears. Edward’s jaw aches.

He lifts his chin, spears his tongue further in, and Jopson cries out, his legs spasming against Edward’s head for a long moment before he collapses forward onto Edward’s stomach, panting.

“A minute,” he gasps. “Sir.”

Edward groans. He means it as assent, as validation, as _yes, of course, take all the time you need_ , but words are so far away from him that he can’t bring them to his mouth to make them real. His heart is pounding hard, and he’s dizzy from all the breaths he didn’t take. Manages to muster the strength to reach up and pat Jopson reassuringly on the thigh, like that will somehow communicate everything he wants to say.

He’s in a liminal space. He’s been hard for so long he doesn’t remember what it felt like to not be that way, but his orgasm is a distant and fuzzy thing on the horizon. His cock is trapped in his leather trousers because that’s where it’s always been, because that’s where it’ll stay, because this is—

—oh, fuck, Jopson is nuzzling at his zipper, and the horizon is much closer than it was mere moments ago.

“Wait,” Edward rasps, even as his hips twitch up against Jopson’s mouth.

“No?” Jopson’s voice is thick, tinted with that husky timbre he gets when he’s aroused.

“Rather come in you.” Edward pats the hotel carpet beside him, turns his head to the side. Jopson’s calf is right there. There’s a lurid bruise on it in the shape of Edward’s teeth. “Fuck did the condoms go.”

“I don’t think we got there,” Jopson says. He shifts up to his knees, shuffles down a little ways so he’s kneeling over Edward’s chest instead of his mouth. “You said the black leather bag in your suitcase?”

Edward reaches up, wraps his hands around Jopson’s waist, and tugs at Jopson till he’s sitting directly on Edward’s chest. “No hovering.”

Jopson chuckles. His voice is raw. His arse is wet and warm where he’s perched on Edward’s chest. “Yes, Sir.” There are faint red marks on his arse cheeks, the size and shape of Edward’s fingers.

Edward taps the marks with his fingers. “What’re your thoughts on being bitten?”

“On the arse?” Jopson asks. He sounds delighted.

“Yeah.”

“Please.”

⛓️

“—more, more, more—Sir?”

“Fuck,” Edward mutters. He tugs at the d-ring of Jopson’s collar, latches his teeth into Jopson’s side again and worries his head back and forth, tugging at the skin. They’ve made it to the bed now, Jopson on all fours and Edward kneeling at his side. Edward’s sex kit is scattered across the bed—condoms, lube, nitrile gloves, a couple dental dams they’d completely neglected to use. (Edward can still taste Jopson in his mouth and he regrets _nothing_ , would do it again in a heartbeat just for the clench of Jopson’s thighs on his face.)

He presses his gloved fingers deeper inside Jopson’s arse. Three fingers deep now. Three fingers, and the first joint of his pinky. He wants to tuck his thumb against his palm, press his entire hand in. Open Jopson up on the width of his knuckles, press further to slide his whole hand in, let Jopson come to rest tight against his wrist. He forces himself to rub his thumb against Jopson’s rim instead. He’s hard and aching and, fuck, he wants, he _wants_ —

“—almost—”

Edward exhales onto Jopson’s back, rests his forehead on Jopson’s spine. Jopson’s head is buried in his left arm while he uses his right to jerk off. His body is shaking underneath Edward. _Fuck_ , it’s good, it’s good, it’s so good—

“—Sir—harder, can you—”

Edward gives in to temptation. Pulls his hand back, narrows his fingers. Bites at his tongue through the ache of it, the pain across his knuckles, bones shifting in his hand, and presses his fingers inside Jopson. Aims just shy of knuckle-deep, steady pressure, rotates his hand just a little—

“—fuck, just—can you hold—”

“I’ve got you,” he says. Bares his teeth against Jopson’s side. Opens his mouth, meaning to bite, but as he does, Jopson goes tense underneath him, arse clenching on Edward’s hand, and Edward braces himself, does his best to keep the pressure exactly where Jopson wants it, exactly where he needs it—

Jopson inhales sharply, grinds his hips against his own hand. Clenches down on Edward’s fingers, and Edward bites into his own tongue, keeps his hand pressing hard inside Jopson. He wants this to be good, wants this to be—

Jopson goes limp, like a marionette with cut strings. “Oh god,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow he’s collapsed into. “ _Sir_.”

“You did so good,” Edward murmurs. Lets go of Jopson’s collar, pats the back of his neck, undoes the blindfold. “I’m so impressed by you, pet.” He feels like he can breathe again, now that Jopson’s come—and with the ability to breathe again comes the realization that he’s sweating, legs hot inside his trousers, cock in dire need of adjustment.

Jopson makes a half-hearted effort to roll onto his side and face Edward. His hand is splayed lazily over his crotch. It’s wet. His eyes are half-lidded, and there’s a beatific smile on his face. “You’d better fuck me now,” he suggests.

Edward very carefully, very slowly, pulls his gloved fingers from Jopson’s arse. Presses his knuckles against Jopson. “I can jerk off—”

“Noooooo,” Jopson says. “Absolutely not, Sir.” He reaches out his hand and tugs at the thigh of Edward’s trousers. “Off with them. Wanna look.”

Edward blinks at him a moment. Jopson’s accent has shifted. It’s rougher, now. He wonders if this is how Jopson sounds at home, if this is how Jopson sounds with his family, if this is how—

“Off,” Jopson repeats.

“Right,” Edward says. He brings his gloved hands to his trousers, curses, and then tugs the nitrile glove off inside out, tucks it into his pocket so they don’t roll on it later. Fuck, his hand aches. Both of them ache, but his right one is worse now. It’s fine, though, he doesn’t need his hand to fuck Jopson. Not if Jopson’s going to let him use his cock. He clumsily undoes his button, unzips. Shoves his trousers down his thighs.

Jopson whistles. “Versace, huh?”

Edward glances down at his briefs. “Yeah,” he says. The gold whorls look garish as fuck now, but with the way that Jopson is looking at him, he doesn’t mind. He bends down, kisses Jopson, and then lies down beside him, licks into his mouth while he shoves at his trousers, starts the awkward process of peeling them off his legs.

Jopson’s mouth is hot and wet, and he shudders when Edward’s tongue touches his. Edward’s cock is throbbing. He kicks his feet, manages to get his trousers off. Cradles Jopson’s face with one hand, puts his other hand down between Jopson’s legs, covers Jopson’s hand with his own.

“So good,” he murmurs. “So good for me, pet.”

Jopson whines into his mouth, wriggles up against Edward’s body. “Fuck, you’re hard,” he murmurs into Edward’s mouth. “Want this in me, please.”

He presses the flat of his palm against Edward’s briefs, rubbing the length of his cock, and Edward groans into Jopson’s mouth, presses up against him. Swallows. Tries to think. “How do you want me to fuck you? Going to get up on your knees again for me? Do you want me to pull on your collar?”

“No,” Jopson says breathlessly, his hand twitching on Edward’s cock. “I mean yes—yes to the collar, but, uh. Could you fuck me, uh.” His face is pink.

Edward taps his fingers against Jopson’s cheek. “Tell me what you want,” he says softly. Just a little longer, he can hold out a little longer—get Jopson exactly what he wants—make sure they can have this again, fuck him deep and hard and _well_ , just like he deserves, he always wants to give Jopson exactly what he deserves...

“Face to face,” Jopson says quietly. This time, his eyes don’t shift away from Edward’s, and Edward loves him for it. “I know it’s not very, uh—”

“Don’t care,” Edward mutters, pressing closer to Jopson again and kissing him deeply. “I’d love to do it. Do you want a hand on your throat during, or just, uh. Vanilla?”

Jopson chuckles. “No need to get drastic on me, Sir,” he says. “Hand on my throat would be lovely.”

“Good,” Edward says. He gropes around the bed for a condom, then for the lube. Kisses Jopson again because he can, because Jopson’s hand is still groping Edward’s cock through his underwear, because he wants to drag this out forever, because he’s been thinking about it since the first time he caught a glimpse of Jopson across the hall, all neat hair and eyes like the ocean, changing with the light, and Edward wants to memorise all of it, every look, every glimpse, every—

“Something missing?” Jopson asks softly.

Edward grimaces. He’s got the lube, he’s got a condom. Jopson’s question is warranted. “Trousers?”

“Mmm, kicked them off the edge of the bed,” Jopson says. “Don’t know how, the bed is huge.”

Edward presses a last kiss to Jopson’s lips, reluctantly pulls himself away and slides off the bed, plucking the trousers off the floor and digging in the front pocket. (The leather smells of sex and sweat and arousal. Like a trophy, something that should be displayed and treasured, _these were the trousers I wore the first time I claimed him_ , and he’s never going to look at these trousers again without thinking about how much he’s _won_.)

“Is that a cock ring?” Jopson asks.

Edward looks up at him. Jopson is propped up on his elbows, gazing lazily back at Edward. He’s flushed all the way down his chest, and his skin is marked with bites and bruises, places where Edward has sucked the blood to the surface of his skin, the hash marks of Edward’s fingernails. He’s gorgeous. He’s _Edward’s_. Edward has devoured him, remade his skin in the image of Edward’s teeth and fists, and he’ll wear this back to London tomorrow, he’ll wear this for the rest of the week, and Jopson can button his shirts to his neck all he wants, Edward knows exactly what is underneath. (Edward _remembers_.)

And now? And now, Edward is going to fuck him, and the cock ring is going to ensure it’s for longer than the scant minutes his arousal will allow him.

“Yeah,” Edward says. He glances down at the silicone cock ring, spins it idly on his finger. “Snagged it from Tozer’s booth.”

Jopson grins crookedly at him, eyebrows raised. He looks adorable—like they’re sharing a secret, a practical joke played on someone else that hasn’t been discovered yet, something they can gossip about in secrecy. (But it’s not just that—it’s that, even underneath the humour, Jopson looks _proud_.) “Figured you might not be able to keep up with me?”

Edward scoffs. “I _knew_ I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you. Had to give myself a fighting chance.” He puts the silicone ring between his teeth, and hooks both thumbs in the waistband of his underwear. Glances at Jopson to make sure that he’s looking, and then tugs the underwear down, lets them fall to the floor.

The way Jopson’s eyes widen is very, very validating. Edward runs his hand back through his hair, breathes deep and tries to calm himself.

(There’s nothing to be done for it, really. His heart is pounding, and he’s light-headed. It doesn’t matter if Jopson notices. He’ll be pleased with the effect he has on Edward, and Edward wants him to feel pleased. He deserves it.)

“You’ll have plenty of time to look,” Edward warns as he gets back onto the bed, hard cock swaying as he moves. “Takes me a bit to get a condom on over all this.”

“Uh-huh,” Jopson says, eyes fixed on Edward’s cock. “About that.”

“Yeah?”

“You showed me your test results in the merch hall.”

“I did.” It was an exchange, but Edward doesn’t think that’s the point Jopson is trying to make right now, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Jopson bites his lower lip, looks up at Edward. “You, uh, super attached to condoms?”

“You’ll be sore enough tomorrow after what I already put you through without having to worry about my come in you besides,” Edward points out. “And it’s a twelve hour plane ride.”

Jopson shrugs, rolls onto his back. “I mean, suit yourself. We can talk about it in London. Guess it’ll probably be easier with the condom holding everything secure. Never been fucked by a pierced cock before.”

“Well, it’ll be slow,” Edward says. Hesitates. Grabs one of the condoms off the bed and carefully opens the wrapper, gestures with it vaguely and tells the rest of the truth. “…these condoms are slightly thicker, it’ll give me a better chance of getting you off before I’m done.”

Jopson raises his eyebrows. “You know you already made a good impression on me, right?”

Edward shrugs, face hot. “Want to continue doing so,” he says gruffly, adjusting his PA. The metal is warm, wet. He drags his fingers up the length of his cock, squeezes the base of it to centre himself. Notices his hands are shaking. His hands are shaking and his balls ache.

Fuck, it wouldn’t take much. His eyes, cataloging the bruises on Jopson’s skin. His hand on his cock. Jopson would look so pretty, painted with his come. Edward would eat it off him, lick it all up and tongue it into Jopson’s mouth. Edward would—

“Please,” Jopson breathes.

“Fuck,” Edward mutters around the silicone cock ring still held in his teeth. “Sorry.” He bows his head, focuses on the condom, pressing the head of his cock into it, and then carefully unrolling it, easing the condom past each individual ladder piercing as he goes.

It’s easier to focus on the minute details of what he’s doing than the broad strokes of what he’s _going_ to do. He keeps his eyes on his own cock for a moment, even once the condom is on, and then opens his mouth, lets the cock ring fall into his palm. Stretches the ring with aching hands, and eases it over his cock, under his balls, nestles it snugly at the base.

The relief is immediate. The ring is tight, and the threat of his orgasm retreats. Edward exhales, thankful for the reprieve. Looks back at Jopson.

Jopson spreads his legs.

⛓️

Jopson’s back is against the headboard, his legs wrapped around Edward’s waist. Edward’s fingers are hooked through the ring on Jopson’s collar, and Jopson is grinding down against Edward’s cock, his eyes hazy, the warmth of his body muted by the condom.

“You like that?” Edward is murmuring. “Like rubbing up against my cock, pet?” He grabs Jopson’s hip a little harder, squeezes his fingerprints into Jopson’s flesh for a moment before sliding his hand down to Jopson’s arse. His stomach clenches when he brushes the pads of his fingers against Jopson’s hole—he’d had gloves on before, the sensation was dull, but fuck, Jopson is slick with lube and warm and ready for him—

“Love it,” Jopson gasps. “Sir, please—”

Edward nods. Leans into Jopson, pinning him to the headboard. Plants kisses on his neck, under and over the collar. God, Jopson’s neck is all over bruises where it’s not covered by leather, and Jopson is his, Jopson is _his_. “Press up with your feet,” he growls, and the moment Jopson’s arse lifts, Edward’s hand is there—one hand holding Jopson up, and the other at the base of his cock. He’s shaking. He can feel it through his shoulders, through his back. In his hands. In his heart, his stomach. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He could do this to Jopson every single day for the rest of his life and still want more. He’s going to do exactly that, for as long as Jopson wants—he’ll be there with his fists and his fingers and his cock and his teeth and tongue and anything else Jopson wants of him, whatever Jopson wants, _everything_ Jopson wants.

Edward steadies his cock, shifts into position.

Oh, fuck.

_Fuck_.

There’s a moment where the ring of his PA presses up against Jopson’s arse, and his body doesn’t yield—and _oh_ , then, it does, and Edward starts pressing his cock inside. Even with all the fingering, with most of his _hand_ in there, Jopson is snug, hot even through the condom, clenching down on the head of Edward’s cock, on the ring.

Jopson gasps, arches his back, and Edward stops moving. Stops moving and waits for Jopson to adjust even though it’s a lot, even though it’s so _much_ , even though he just wants to drive his cock into Jopson and chase his own orgasm, cock ring be damned—

(And he will back in London, he _will_ —)

Jopson exhales, the tension going out of his shoulders as he sinks down a little further on Edward’s cock. There’s lube everywhere, and their bodies are slick in the places they touch, lube and sweat and everything else.

“Good,” Edward murmurs. “You’re doing so good, let me know when to stop—do you want me to pull out?”

“Nope,” Jopson says. “I just—I just—whew. I swear I can feel—all the bars. Every single—bloody bar—oh, oh, _Ned_.”

Edward exhales, closes his eyes. Shifts his hands to Jopson’s hips, steadies him as he sinks down onto Edward, as Edward drives forward into him, an infinitely slow, tight joining of their two bodies into one, gradual, inexorable, like two icebergs meeting, crashing together in an agonizingly slow press—

—and then Edward bottoms out.

Edward bottoms out, and their bodies are pressed tight together, Jopson’s arms around his neck, Jopson’s thighs squeezing around his waist, Jopson’s fingers in his heart where they won’t let go, they’ll never let go—they’re bound together, the two of them, now. Dominant and submissive, sadomasochist and masochist. Edward could cry for relief of it, for knowing that pursuing Jopson was the right decision, for the beauty and grace and _rightness_ of Jopson letting himself be pursued, for knowing, now, for certain, that there is a time and a place for the second collar that Edward purchased, for the collar that will be permanent for the two of them, for the knowledge that Jopson won’t ever need to go to an event like this again with a bare neck, not if he doesn’t want to—not if he wants Edward, if he keeps wanting Edward, if he—

Oh, _fuck_ , Jopson is clenching down on him again.

Edward turns his head, breathes heavily into Jopson’s neck. Jopson is murmuring, indistinct words that Edward can’t make out.

“You okay?” Edward murmurs.

“Yeah, yeah. Wow.”

“Good,” Edward says. He braces his right hand on the headboard, uses his left to steady Jopson’s back. “Gonna fuck you now.”

“ _Yes_.”

Edward thrusts his hips, sharp and shallow, and grins against Jopson’s neck when Jopson’s breath comes out of him in a huff, like the wind has been knocked out of him. “Again?”

“ _God_ yes,” Jopson says. “You’re so _thick_.”

“Some of that is the cock ring,” Edward reminds him bashfully. Thrusts up inside him again, grinds when he’s in there deepest before pulling back. “I’m cheating, a bit.”

Jopson whimpers, clutches at Edward’s back, nails scratching over the marks already there. “Please keep cheating, please keep—Ned!”

“That’s right,” Edward says, slowly picking up the pace. He’s hardly moving, still—just small shifts, back and forth, but Jopson is panting with effort anyway, and Edward is feral. “Take my cock, pet. _Take it._ ”

Jopson buries his face in Edward’s shoulder, moans into his neck.

Edward fucks him hard, steady. His world is contracted to Jopson’s body, that’s it, that’s all. Nothing else exists. It’s just Jopson and Edward, their naked bodies sliding against each other, sweat co-mingling. The wet sound of their collision. Gasping breaths, like they’re sucking all the oxygen out of the room because they need it, the thump of the headboard against the wall like a heartbeat—this is now, this is perfect, this is everything—

He should change position. He should splay Jopson out flat, fuck him that way. Get Jopson’s legs up onto his shoulders. He wants his hands on Jopson’s chest, his hands around Jopson’s throat; settles for fumbling for the ring on his collar, tugging steadily. Jopson’s hand is between their bodies, his knuckles sharp against Edward’s stomach, his other hand underneath himself, his fingers grasping at Edward’s balls and Edward is lightheaded with arousal, with the agony of not being able to come, fully conscious of exactly how tight the cock ring is, the blood pounding in his erection, veins standing out—

Edward puts his hand on Jopson’s face and Jopson turns his head, kisses Edward’s palm. His face is wet, and he smells of salt.

“Thank you,” he manages. “Sir, thank you, I—oh, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m greedy, I want—”

“Tell me,” Edward growls, thrusting up into him.

“I wanna—get off like this—” Jopson shudders, nails digging into Edward’s back.

“Yes,” Edward says, grinding up into him. “What do you need?”

“More space,” Jopson manages. “My hand, I need—”

“Hold tight,” Edward says. Puts his hands on Jopson’s hips and lifts him off the bed, shuffles back and lets Jopson down again, his head cushioned by damp pillows. “Comfy?”

“Yeah, yeah—” Jopson arches his back, tensing around Edward’s cock. “Collar, hand on—hand on my collar—”

“Damn right it’s your collar,” Edward growls. He wraps his hand around the back of Jopson’s neck, putting the brunt of his weight into the bed and pulling the collar snug against the front of Jopson’s neck. Puts his other hand on the bruises on the back of Jopson’s thigh, pushing it up against his chest. “This work?”

“Oh _god_ you’re deep,” Jopson says. “I—yes, this is—I—yeah, I can—how are you so _deep_?”

“You’re letting me,” Edward rasps. “You’re letting me in—fuck, yes, touch yourself, show me how you like to touch yourself—fuck, Tom, get yourself off—”

Jopson throws his head back. His throat is bared but no longer bare, decorated with the collar Edward gave him, with the bruises Edward sucked into his skin, with the sharp marks of Edward’s teeth, a love letter to Edward’s affection—

“Wanna come on your cock,” Jopson manages. “Please, I—so close— _harder_ —” His right hand is between his legs, his left clutching onto Edward’s wrist.

“Can you,” Edward says, and then Jopson clenches down on him and Edward bites his tongue, bottoms out and just stays there a minute, trying to get his breath.

“Can I?”

“Come on command,” Edward manages. “Say—if I count to, uh.” Fuck, he usually doesn’t come with a cock ring on, but he thinks he could manage it this time. “Ten.”

Jopson pants, shifts underneath him. “Make me,” he begs.

Edward fucks into him, leans more of his weight into Jopson’s thigh so he can get just that fraction deeper. “I’ll reward you if you can do it,” he promises, knowing he’ll reward Jopson if he can’t, too—but he can’t stop thinking about their scene in the dungeon, about counting to five and Jopson coming against his thigh, and if they’re going to be greedy, if Jopson is going to be greedy—Edward wants to be greedy too. He wants this.

Always.

Edward takes a deep breath. “Ready, pet? I’ll count it for you.”

Jopson nods, panting.

Edward tugs on the collar, shoves his thumb underneath so he can caress Jopson’s jugular. “Gonna fuck you till you come,” he says. Stills his body a moment, waits for Jopson’s eyelids to flutter open, waits for Jopson to _look_ —and then starts thrusting into him again.

He puts his back into it, the whole weight of his body. Fucks Jopson with short, sharp thrusts, since those are the ones he’s been most responsive to, and counts at half the speed he’s fucking at. “One, two, three—”

Jopson whines underneath him, hand moving faster between his legs.

“—four, five, six, seven—fuck, pet—”

“Ned, Ned, _Ned_!”

“—eight, nine—”

Edward is gonna make it happen.

He takes a deep breath. Shifts his one hand to steady Jopson’s head. Pulls back the other.

“Look at me,” he orders.

Jopson’s eyelids flutter, and he looks at Edward’s upraised hand. Meets his eyes.

Smiles.

Edward slaps Jopson across the face as he thrusts into him for the last time, hard and deep.

Jopson screams in pleasure, arches up on the bed. Edward has to scramble after him to keep his cock in deep, hold it there while Jopson spasms around him, thrashing on the bed and gasping for air. The moment Jopson collapses back on the bed, Edward pulls out, reaches up to cradle Jopson’s face in his hands, kissing him desperately.

“There you are, there you go,” he murmurs. “God, sweetheart, pet, you did so well for me, you did so well for me just there—”

Jopson makes a strange noise, and Edward pulls back because Jopson is—

“It’s okay,” Jopson says. Hiccups. Kisses Edward back. “Happy tears, happy tears, Edward—I’m okay, I’m okay, I haven’t—wow. Not in a long time. Maybe ever. Not like that.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Edward breathes. He licks at Jopson’s cheeks, lapping the tears away, breathes Jopson’s heady air. “God, that was amazing. Watching you. The way you came apart at the end there. Could watch that forever. Wow.”

Jopson smiles, lopsided. Reaches up and pushes his hair back before he shudders, presses at Edward’s shoulder. “Too sensitive for that, though, love. Do it where I can see?”

Edward blinks, realizes. Pulls up and away from Jopson. “Fuck, sorry—didn’t realize I was still…”

“Humping me, yes,” Jopson says, smiling. He wriggles down in the pillows, nods at Edward. “You must be dying, you haven’t come once.”

Edward looks down at his cock, winces. Strokes it, shudders with the unfamiliar sensation of the condom over the barbells.

“None of that,” Jopson says softly. “Take it off, Sir. Come on me.”

Edward exhales. His hands are shaking again, and it takes him a couple tries to get the condom off. His naked cock in his hand is a relief, but not as much a relief as the look on Jopson’s face. He shuffles forward till he’s kneeling over Jopson, bracketing Jopson’s hips with his knees. “This what you wanted?” he asks gruffly, stroking his cock over Jopson’s stomach.

“Yeah,” Jopson says. His face is still pink from his orgasm. “I’d touch myself again if you hadn’t fucked me out.”

Edward sighs, widens his knees. Reaches behind himself and—

“Oh!” Jopson says brightly. He wriggles out from between Edward’s legs, surges up and kisses Edward. “I forgot about the ring, you said I could see?”

Edward laughs against Jopson’s lips. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, lets himself be pressed back until he’s the one lying down, his head nearly hanging off the end of the bed. Jopson is kneeling between his legs, bruised and bitten and flushed and gorgeous. Not the position Edward intended to end the night in, but it’s so charming seeing Jopson like this that he wouldn’t change it for the world. “Here.” He puts his feet up on Jopson’s thighs, lets his knees fall apart so that Jopson can see between his legs. “That what you wanted to look at?” He fucks up into his own hand, shudders. He’s so unbearably close now that he’s allowing himself to think about it, now that he’s focusing on his own arousal instead of Jopson’s.

“Show me,” Jopson says.

Edward shuts his eyes, strokes his cock. Reaches between his legs, tugs on the ring in his guiche piercing, pleasure curling up his spine. “Won’t be much of a show,” he manages.

“Let me see,” Jopson says, voice low. “Come all over yourself for me.”

Edward’s breath hitches. He tightens his hand on his cock, presses against the ring. All he can see is Jopson kneeling above him, watching intently. All he can think about is Jopson. Everything, from the weekend, all at once—Jopson polishing his boots, Jopson stripping for him, that first orgasm in the dungeon, and the most recent one, right here, Jopson’s hand on his cock, his cock in Jopson’s mouth, the way Jopson had swallowed, and the soft, low murmur of Jopson’s voice now, right here, in the hotel room they’re sharing for the night.

Edward inhales sharply, tightens his grip.

Comes.

⛓️

(Once, he’d been swimming. There’d been an underwater cave. He’d gone in, gotten turned around. Almost hadn’t made it back out. By the time he got reoriented, his lungs were burning, and every single muscle ached. When he’d breached the surface, the first thing he’d done was gasped in a breath of the sweetest oxygen he’d ever inhaled.

The second thing he’d done was laugh.)

⛓️

“Holy shit,” Edward says, some time later. “I’m still shaking.”

Jopson looks over, fingers idly dragging come from Edward’s stomach up to his chest. His hair has fallen forward over his eyes again, and that little half-smile keeps playing around the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You are.” Bends down, presses a kiss to Edward’s shoulder. “You’re gorgeous like this.”

Edward chuckles. “Filthy, more like.”

“Like I said,” Jopson agrees, lifting his finger and painting Edward’s lips with his own come, before leaning over and kissing it back off again. “I see, though,” he says, lips moving against Edward’s own, “why you thought skipping the condom might have been inadvisable for tomorrow’s flight.”

Edward looks down at himself, grimaces. “It’s been a bit,” he allows. Con prep had taken more of his energy than he wanted to admit—there’d been all that bullshit with Hickey—but he must have masturbated at some point in the last week?

Jopson swats him lightly. “ _Yesterday_ , Edward.”

“...shit, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no,” Jopson says, laughing. “My point still stands. Nearly choked on your come yesterday too.” He glances down at Edward’s stomach, the come pooled in his bellybutton, and across Edward’s knuckles. “I don’t mind.”

“No?”

“I like it,” Jopson confides, and he runs his fingers through the mess again, pops it in his mouth and sucks.

“Fuck,” Edward mutters. He exhales, glances up at the ceiling.

Looks over at Jopson, and then reaches up and touches his cheek.

“Might have marked you a bit, there,” he admits.

Jopson smiles, grips Edward’s hand tightly. “Worth it,” he says softly. “So very, very worth it.”

⛓️

“—something to eat?”

Edward blinks, brushes his wet hair out of his face. “What?”

Jopson tilts his head, peers at Edward as he leans against the bathroom counter. He’s wearing the collar, but hasn’t got anything else on except for boxers, and a gloriously erotic collection of bruises and bite marks. _Edward’s_ bite marks. “Do you normally sit in the shower?”

Edward looks down at himself, makes a face. “Legs were wobbly,” he admits self-consciously. He’d initially sat so that he didn’t end up doing something stupid, like collapse—but now that he’s down here, he has to admit sitting here naked with his legs stretched out and the hot water spraying on his chest is actually pretty comfortable. (He’s very aware that his hands are still shaking.) “Credit card’s in my wallet.”

“I don’t—”

“ _I’m_ paying,” Edward insists, dropping his voice low.

(He’s immediately vindicated when Jopson goes pink. God, he’s gorgeous like that. Edward was gonna pay for everything regardless, but his entire body is warmed just by the look on Jopson’s face.)

“If you’re sure…”

“Order, uh.” Edward shuts his eyes, tries to think about food. Probably he’d eat, if the food was already there. Mostly, he just wants to bask in Jopson’s presence. Maybe put his hand on Jopson’s thigh. Count the bruises. Tell Jopson how good he is. “Some of everything, I guess? And whatever you want.” He squints up at Jopson. “You’re starving, aren’t you.”

“I’m a tad peckish,” Jopson says, in a tone of voice that sounds like a deliberate understatement. The sound of the running water drowns out any other contextual clues, like whether his stomach is rumbling—but that’s fine, Edward is going to learn those too, all the little shades of Jopson’s voice, all the subtext of his body. He’s going to remember all Jopson’s favourite foods, stock his fridge with things Jopson likes to eat. Blindfold him again and feed him things from his fingers, from the palm of his hand. “I was thinking about getting chips or something.”

“Yes,” Edward says. “Do that. As much as you can eat, and maybe some appetizers or something too? Dessert? Do you think they have good desserts here? Is there, like, some kind of...Canadian national dessert? I don’t know, I’ll scavenge from whatever you order. Use, uh. The black card.”

“Are you—”

“Absolutely positive,” Edward says softly. “Order as much as you want, pet.”

Jopson smiles at him. “Only because you made me.”

Edward runs his eyes down Jopson’s chest, cataloging the bruises—and then his gaze wanders back up to Jopson’s face. Specifically, his neck. “Um. You look really good in that collar.”

Jopson grins at him, pushes his hair back behind his ear. “Thank you, Sir.”

Edward closes his eyes when Jopson leaves, leans his head against the back wall of the shower. He feels absolutely drained, but not quite willing to commit to sleeping yet, still buzzed on adrenaline and the pleasant lassitude of really, really great sex. It’s tempting to just wander back to bed, sling his arms across Jopson and fall asleep immediately, but some food will probably help. Food, and maybe a quick exploration of Jopson’s bruises with the tips of his fingers, if Jopson is amenable. He should really take a closer look at Jopson’s face, too—now that some time has elapsed, it doesn’t look as though he’ll bruise, but Edward would really rather be sure.

“Food’ll be here shortly,” Jopson says. “Shift forward a bit?”

Edward opens his eyes. “What?”

Jopson is standing in the doorway, eyes flickering over Edward appreciatively. He’s stark naked, holding the collar in his hand like he doesn’t quite want to put it down yet. “I’ll come wash your hair, if you like?”

“...god,” Edward says gratefully. “Yes, come in, pet. Don’t let me fall asleep on you.”

“I’ll pinch if I have to,” Jopson says dryly. He glances into the shower. “...you’re not just using the hotel toiletries, are you?”

Edward glances up, groans when he realizes most of his stuff is missing. “Guess I am now.”

Jopson shakes his head. Sets the collar down on the counter, patting it with his fingertips, and then comes over to the shower.

Edward slides the door open with his foot, and beckons his pet in.

⛓️

Edward counts to one hundred in Latin, ignores the dull ache from the ice water he’s immersing his hands in. He can hear Jopson moving around in the hotel room, tries to imagine what he’s doing. He thinks the room service had arrived while he was filling the sink, but hasn’t opened the bathroom door yet to confirm it.

(He can tell, however, that Jopson is happy, as he’s singing softly to himself, and if the thought of it makes Edward feel warm, well, that’s fine. He’s happy knowing that Jopson is happy.)

He holds his hands underwater just a little longer, a bit past _centum_ , and then pulls them out, drains the sink. Gently pats them dry on a towel—they’ve gone numb, now, but he wants to prolong that feeling as much as possible—picks up Jopson’s collar, and walks out into the hotel room proper, only to stop dead.

Jopson is eating. And looking at Edward. Eating and looking at him at the same time, with absolutely no care as to how he looks. His forelock has fallen forward again, and rather than eating off the desk or the bedside table, he’s just got the plate in front of him on the bed, is sitting there cross-legged on the sheets they’d just fucked on. The food is—some mess of at least two different kinds of sauce, chips, and partially melted lumps of cheese.

He’d thought Jopson to be a particular man, and he doesn’t think that assessment is _wrong_ , necessarily, not with how Jopson behaves in public, but _this_? This is Jopson in private, and this is something that Edward gets to have back in London too, this—this casual domesticity that he just _gets_ now. Jopson eats completely unselfconsciously, focused on speed more than manners—whatever he’s eating isn’t a delicate food, and Jopson isn’t eating it in a civilized manner. There’s a smear of something at the side of his mouth, and as Jopson looks up, catches Edward’s eye, he ignores the napkin completely, brings his other hand up and wipes the sauce away with the back of his hand.

Edward swallows. Leans against the doorframe.

(He’s made Jopson _comfortable_ , has fucked him into relaxation and casual domesticity.)

“Sorry,” Jopson is saying. “You were gonna ask something?”

Edward opens his mouth. Closes it again.

(There’s a smear of sauce on the back of Jopson’s hand.)

Jopson blinks at him. Looks down at his food. “Oh, did you want some?” He sticks his fork back into the food, lifts it up. There’s melted cheese oozing down toward the plate.

Jopson catches it with the finger of his other hand, brings it back up onto the fork. Raises his eyebrows at Edward.

“Yeah,” Edward manages. “Fuck, yeah.” He swallows again, crawls onto the bed, setting the collar aside for now.

Lets Jopson feed him from his own fork.

Edward chews, swallows. Oh, god. It’s warm and delicious and not at all what he expected. “Okay, that’s really fucking good.”

“I _know_ ,” Jopson says. “It’s poutine. Cheese curds and gravy on fries. I think there’s hot sauce in here too. I love it.”

“I love _you_ ,” Edward says. He wraps his arms around Jopson’s waist, nestles his head into Jopson’s lap. Looks up at Jopson’s face.

Jopson’s eyes are wide, his mouth partly open. He’s speechless.

He’s— _oh_.

Oh fuck.

“Um,” Edward says.

“Don’t you dare retract that, Edward Little,” Jopson says fiercely. “I’m not—”

“I wasn’t!”

“—or upset—”

“Oh thank god,” Edward says. He relaxes into Jopson’s lap, turns his head and nuzzles Jopson’s bare stomach. “I’d hate to think I’d made an ass out of myself for nothing.”

Jopson looks at him a moment before exhaling. “You look gorgeous when you smile, you know that?”

“Yeah? I bet I look more gorgeous if you give me another forkful of that poutine.”

Jopson laughs. “Only one way to find out.”

The second forkful is even better than the first.

Fuck, Canada is _great_.

* * *

His only regret, Thomas thinks as he bends down and uses the card between his teeth to open the hotel room door, is that he can only hold two muffins. If it turns out choosing saskatoon muffins over blueberry was a mistake, he’ll have to go all the way back downstairs in the hopes of correcting his mistake. He opens the door with his elbow, quietly slips inside the hotel room, and carefully sets his luggage down on the floor.

When he straightens, he realizes Edward Little is watching him.

There is not a terribly subtle way to explain to one’s new dom that, yes, you’d stepped out in order to retrieve your own luggage without invitation, and that you’d also stopped for breakfast and were currently carrying two muffins and two cups of coffee besides for a breakfast that you had not, strictly speaking, been invited to have, and it was, of course, entirely possible that one’s dom had made previous plans for breakfast, which had now been derailed by said muffins—

And, anyway, it’s nearly impossible to determine what to say when Edward Little has the audacity to look like _that_ first thing in the morning.

His bedhead is extravagant, for one thing, and the hand he’s attempting to run through it appears to have gotten stopped in a knot. The kraken tattoo curled around his arm is beautiful, erotic and intimate at the same time. His muttonchops are floofed out, and he’s squinting in the dim light. He’s been awake long enough to tug on a loose pair of grey sweatpants—but judging by the way they cling, he’s not wearing any underwear underneath.

Thomas swallows. “Hi,” he says.

Edward exhales, extracts his hand from his hair. Crosses his arms over his bare chest, rocks back on his heels. “You’re still here,” he says, grinning wide enough to show his teeth. “Thought I might have scared you off.”

“Ah,” Thomas says, smiling back at him, revelling in the way his heart gallops in his chest. “Absolutely terrified, me. That’s why I ran all the way back to my room to get my luggage and bring it back.”

Edward paces toward him easily, bare feet moving quietly on the carpet. He stops when they’re still a few paces apart, nods toward Thomas’ hands. “That breakfast?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Sit it down by the mirror there.”

Thomas does as asked, setting down the coffee and muffins, and then standing again.

“And you said that’s your luggage.” Edward glances at Thomas’ bag.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And I’m pretty sure that’s my hoodie you’re wearing.”

“...yes, Sir.”

“Tip your head up,” Edward says, voice going dark and eyes glinting.

Thomas looks up at the ceiling.

“It’s the strangest thing,” Edward continues in that low, even voice. “No, keep your eyes on the ceiling, I want you to focus on my words here—because although I did fall asleep early last night, I do seem to recall waking in the middle of the night and taking your collar off. It appears to me now, though, that it’s back on.”

“It is,” Thomas agrees.

“So what you’re telling me is that you woke up early this morning. You put your collar on, of your own accord. You wore my clothing. You collected your own luggage so that you don’t need to go back to your room. You gathered up breakfast. You got my coffee the way I like it. And let us not forget that you also stole the hotel key out of my trouser pocket in order to let yourself quietly back into the room, in order to…”

(God, Thomas’ heart is beating quickly.)

“I was hoping I might have an opportunity to be of service to you again this morning,” Thomas says. “Sir.”

“Look at me,” Edward says.

Thomas looks.

Edward’s eyes are dark, pupils blown. His cock is hardening, the ring visible through his sweatpants. His tongue darts out, licks his lips, the piercings glinting in the light. “You can choose. I’ve been thinking about your mouth on my cock. And I would be delighted if you—no, don’t kneel yet, hear me out, Tom.”

Thomas nods. He takes a deep breath, and waits.

“I’ve also,” Edward says, “been thinking about my mouth on yours.” He takes a step closer, raises his eyebrows, the overhead light flashing off the rings punctuating them. “How about it, pet? Can I get my mouth on you?”

Thomas swallows. “Please,” he says, voice hoarse. Lowers his hands to his trousers, shoves them down his hips, and steps out of them completely.

Edward kneels. Extends his hand.

Curls his fingers, beckoning.

Thomas obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Notes:** bruising from previous activities persists | various sex acts including rimming, biting, most of Edward’s hand up Jopson’s ass, anal intercourse with a condom, face slapping, happy crying, come play | 
> 
> **~~~THE END NOTES~~~**
> 
> That’s it, that’s the fic! Thank you for joining me, I hope you had a nice time!
> 
> If you enjoyed Closer, please consider subscribing to the series. I’m working on a Tozer/Irving fic that overlaps the events of Closer (cuz, uh, we did not have time to unpack *gestures* all that), and also a Fitzier fic that takes place at the upcoming winter convention. Also, I’m probably going to tide myself through drafting longfics by putting out some joplittle one-shots spanning the gap between Closer and whatever the Fitzier fic ends up being called.
> 
> Do you like art? Autumn commissioned kamidog for a [wonderful portrait of Edward Little](https://twitter.com/kamidog/status/1253913992952606722?s=20), look at him! He’s gorgeous and I love him.
> 
> If you'd like to read more, there's a [behind-the-scenes post on Tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/post/616933499385135104/closer-chapter-five-aftercare-bonus-features)!
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula) and on [tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/) and [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/heyktula).
> 
> My sincerest thanks to [Autumn](/users/for_autumn_i_am/), who is really the best writing friend any person could ever ask for. I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again--Autumn prevented me from making some Very Serious Errors with the plot for Closer, and the success this fic has is because she sat me down and was like "dude. come on." and she was right.
> 
> I also owe a great deal to [Deadsy](/users/deadsy/), my amazingly supportive girlfriend, who is wonderfully tolerant of the walls of text I send. And to [Asher_Ephraim](/users/Asher_Ephraim/), who should come join us in Terror fic, we're having a nice time.


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